


This Moment

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [17]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Battle, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Dragon Age Quest: Happier Times, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Ferelden, Field work, Letters, Memories, Nightmares, Redcliffe Castle, Regrets, Rift, Romantic Gestures, Skyhold, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, South Reach Bannorn, Templar Order, lake, morning coffee, war council
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Previously: Cullen delights in the time he spends with Dorothea. But the chaos of Skyhold is too much for a burgeoning relationship. Cullen strives to find a way to be with Dorothea, and not the Inquisitor.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“There you are.”

“Were you waiting for me?”

“No,” Cullen blurts out. Dorothea looks momentarily uneasy, and Cullen realizes his nervousness led him to say the wrong thing. A look of discomfort crosses his face and he stilts out, “I mean yes.”

“I can come back,” and she turns, ready to flee and scamper. He knows his hesitation is ridiculous. This is what he wants. If she doesn’t, all she can do is refuse. He takes a deep breath to force himself to pause.

“May I start again?” he asks, palms out and open.

“By all means,” a slight smile tugs at her generous mouth.

“We have some dealings in Ferelden that need attention. I want to verify the state of the southern pass over the Frostbacks for use in the winter and we need to ascertain the supply routes and sources of iron and drakestone before the frosts come. Harrit will be overseeing a large supply increase for his preparations for the spring, so we need the supplies—and the provender wagons for that matter—to move quickly. The passes into Skyhold will be untenable for wagons once the snow begins to fall.” He realizes he’s rambling, pushes on: “The importance of it, the necessity of these, I thought to go myself and wondered if you would like to accompany us?” He has droned the last in a rush.

_Maker, when did I become so nervous?_

Talking to Dorothea had become so easy. Collaborating to identify allies, working to keep their people here safe, tracking down Samson: they developed a rapport and a friendship. He had believed, had thought, that the kisses and smiles they began to share between them would be easier still. But inexplicably it had become the opposite. He senses her distance even now, a look in her eyes that is never fully present, that seems to always watch him. He does not doubt she wants him, enjoys him, but he fails to understand to what end.

Then she surprises him with a laugh: lusty and carefree that rings out from her. “Maker, can I say yes without asking permission?”

Her laugh was rare after the man left. But the worry around her eyes started to release just a little since they had found the evidence about Sahrnia, understood that the victory there was a triumph they couldn’t fathom at the time.

The Commander is grateful that their leader remembers how to laugh; Cullen is grateful when he can be part of her joy. “Well, you have mine,” he says, “and I imagine we can wrestle up a rift if we need to convince Josephine that the Inquisitor is needed in the field and not dancing court on nobles in Skyhold.” He speaks the last in a conspiratorial manner, a smirk on his lips, his eyes inviting her laugh to ring out again.

“I—” she falters, a look of uncertainty on her features. But then she wipes it away with a shake of her head as a Mabari would shake off a sneeze. “If I didn’t know better, Commander, I would think you are trying to get me alone out in the Wilderness.”

He flushes, but manages to drawl: “Yes, except for the squadron of soldiers, the half-dozen Templars, the party of scouts, my adjutants, and a host of ravens to appease Leliana’s need to keep track of us . . .” he steps to her, gently lifts her hand with his and raises her fingers to his lips, “. . . completely alone.”

She laughs breathily when his lips touch her fingers. He has on his gloves and cannot feel the heat of her hand.

His lips feel the heat of her, though.

He can smell the sharp tinge of mint and embrium: she’s been in the hospital ward tending to some of the convalescents from Adamant.

He can see—despite her careful ministrations to try to clean them—the crease of soil beneath her fingernails: she’s made a stop to check on the garden and pulled weeds.

Her thumb slips up from the perch of his hand and lingers over the contour of his lips. He is shy about his scar there. He is grateful her touch never fixates on that imperfection of him.

He can feel the callous deep in the pad of her thumb, firm with smooth edges.

He wants to turn over her hand and trail reverent kisses up her palm, over the crest of the heel of her hand and into her wrist. He wants to trace each of her veins there with his tongue and taste her skin to see if he can taste her travels on her.

A knock sounds at the door. He straightens and moves to lower her hand. Her fingernails skim the seams of his gloved fingers, denying the loss of contact. He takes in the look of her: the gentle gaze of longing in the flare of her nostrils as she deepens her breath. He leans forward, darts in, his quick movement catching her by surprise, and he kisses her jaw, nuzzling his nose into her earlobe for the briefest of touches. She sucks in a breath of surprise, turns her face to him. But he is quick and has already moved back, a grin on his mouth, his eyes dancing with humor as he releases her hand.

He speaks: “Enter.”

It is Jonas. The young man does not waiver at the Inquisitor’s presence. It is common enough to see her in the Commander’s office as she consults on tracking Samson and discussing the winter preparations for the spring marches. He salutes them both and crosses to the Commander with a murmured, “Sers.” Jonas hands his reports to the Commander and awaits his next instruction.

Cullen glances at the reports, sees that Morris has the stores ready that he requested for this expedition. He speaks to Jonas: “We will set off in two morning’s time, Jonas. Please ask Ser Morris to coordinate with you and Malkiel to finish provisioning us. Ask Cassandra and Ranulf to meet with me after the mid-day meal so we can review the training regimen for the next month. This,” he takes a folded paper from his desk, “is for the Lady Ambassador. Wait after you deliver it for her raven messages to Leli—” but he ends his statement abruptly when Dorothea plucks the paper from his fingers.

“I will take that, Commander. The Lady Ambassador and I should discuss my absence,” she turns to Jonas. “I will be joining you, Jonas, in the field. Please let Master Dennet know to ready Hedda.”

“Yes, Inquisitor; Master Dennet has already begun preparing Hedda, Ser,” Jonas answers.

Dorothea turns to Cullen in undisguised astonishment, her head cocked, her eyes bright with challenge. Cullen’s mouth firms into a line and, with a flick of his hand, he dismisses a confused looking Jonas. Jonas hastily and quietly retreats from the office with a murmured, “Sers,” leaving them alone.

“Damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she breathes into the silence as Jonas closes the door. It’s a whisper of breath he almost can’t make out over the thud of the door as it rests in the frame. But, he had been listening for it. 

She resumes: “I will ask Josie to call a council meeting; she will need to know to invite Cassandra and Josie will need to know why she does so. I will mollify her with my presence and with doing her bidding until we leave.” She reaches up to brush a quick kiss over his cheek bone just on the edge of his stubble and then turns to leave before he can even reach out to squeeze her arm.

As she walks to the door she throws over her shoulder: “I imagine I won’t see much of you except for short glances across the garden at the receptions for our guests.”

She opens the door and nearly disappears out the portal before he registers her statement. “Reception? What reception? I have no plans to attend any of Josephine’s functions.”

Dorothea pokes her head around the door, a gleam in her eyes: “The ones you will be at for the next two evenings to apologize for monopolizing my time in the field for the next month. _Dress_ uniform, of course.” She slides the last in and Cullen recognizes the gleam in her eye, the quirk of her smile: he should salvage his losses while he can.

“We mustn’t disappoint our Lady Ambassador,” he returns and gives a formal bow. He smiles as he looks up from his waist bow, “It is a sound strategy, Inquisitor.” He winks.

She tilts her head and lifts one eyebrow in a nod of acknowledgement and disappears around the door. From inside his office he can hear her laugh ring out on the battlements.

Cullen is left in the sudden quiet. He stares at his desk, not seeing the reports that sit there. Absently he removes his glove and lightly traces his own thumb over his lip where she had done the same minutes ago. He marvels at how different it feels when she does it; the warmth of his own hands surprises him.

He stands like that, reviewing the reassuring weight of her hand resting on his own until Jonas returns and they begin to assess the most recent repair work on Skyhold.


	2. Chapter 2

“These are written, Josie. What is next?”

Dorothea stretches her arms over her head, flexing her fingers to move blood back into them. She has written her own signature so many times over the last two hours that it has become a struggle not to make it look like a wiggly line. Most of the notes in the beginning of the morning had been already written and only needed her signature. As the morning wore on, Josie had given her brief notes to pen in her own hand—copied of course from the meticulous language of the Lady Ambassador—as the two women wound their way through a mountain of correspondence to increasingly influential nobles and patrons.

“Ah, Inquisitor, it is miraculous how quickly you complete these.” As Josephine takes the stack with an approving smile at the tidiness of Dorothea’s script, her tone still chides slightly. It is a sign of how frustrated Josephine was at Dorothea’s pronouncement that she will leave in two days’ time instead of in two weeks. Dorothea does not take offense at Josephine’s annoyance. The Ambassador shields the Inquisitor from the worst of the nobility. Dorothea finds those raised to rule tiresome, in no small part because most hear the Trevelyan name and assume they all share the same opinions on things like taxes and fiefdoms. The Ambassador learned very early on to control nobles’ access to the Inquisitor at Skyhold, at least in any large numbers, and some are strictly banned from being in Dorothea’s vicinity (although, if the truth is told, it is Dorothea who is restricted from talking _to them_ ).

Tonight’s and tomorrow’s reception in the garden will be slightly unusual. But Josephine has been in her element these last few hours consulting on menus and conferring with the Nevarran and Highever delegations on suitable music.

Josie has at least fed her well and a steady stream of tea and delicate sandwiches and small cookies has Dorothea convinced she should only ever write correspondence in the Ambassador’s domain. Josie returns from her desk with two more notes and spare parchment.

“We will have time before the Council arrives at half past for these last two, Inquisitor. I was elated that you and the Commander thought to include a tour of the South Bannorn. Arl Bryland was one of our first  supporters in Ferelden and fiercely proud of the Commander’s and Leliana’s Ferelden associations. It will be a boon for us in the winter should our stores not prove sufficient. The Arl controls some of the most fertile land in the Bannorn . . .”

Josephine chatters on, having deposited the notes with Dorothea. Dorothea’s smile sticks to her face as she has no idea what the Ambassador is talking about. She hadn’t thought that they would be visiting any noble houses in their time in the field. She looks down to the parchment in her hand that she is to copy out:

 _Arl Guerrin,_  
_I extend to you my hope for a prosperous Harvest in Redcliffe. I will be travelling through Redcliffe on Inquisition business in a few weeks’ time. I will be accompanied by the Commander of the Inquisition’s armed forces and we will be verifying supply routes for the Inquisition and the winter rotation in our encampments. It is my hope that we may entreat of your hospitality for two nights as we travel through the area. It would be an honor to see Redcliffe Castle restored to its glory and sovereignty._  
_Yours in the Bride,_  
_Lady Dorothea Trevelyan_  
_Herald of Andraste_  
_Inquisitor_

“This is from the Commander?” Dorothea speaks up, interrupting Josephine.

“What?”

“To Arl Teagan; it is from the Commander?”

“And yourself, Inquisitor,” Josephine is confused and does not bother to hide her tone.

“Of course, Josie; that is what I meant. I mean, this was the note that I brought to you? You mentioned a letter to Arl Bryland?”

“Oh, my apologies, Inquisitor. That has already gone to Leliana to be dispatched. The Commander’s note indicated it was to come from him.” Josephine frowns. “I am sorry, Inquisitor. Did you need to see it?”

Dorothea smiles at Josephine: “Oh, no, Josie. I just wanted to make sure it was not misplaced somewhere since they were not together,” Dorothea bluffs and bends her head to write. She does not want to betray to Josie she has no idea exactly where they will be going, and she marvels that Cullen has arranged their trip so completely and so quietly. She cannot help but speculate on his purposes, nor why they will visit Redcliffe Castle.

A feeling of dis-ease creeps over her as she stares at the parchment she is to copy out. Redcliffe Castle. If she was never to return there again, it would be fine with her. But, now that Alexius is dead and with the Arl in residence, perhaps it will help to diminish some of the nightmares that still linger. She laughs to herself mirthlessly.

 _One of the nightmares, anyway._

She moves her thoughts willingly away from the horrors of Redcliffe and shifts them back to Cullen.

It has only been a few weeks of . . . _whatever_ this is . . . and she still does not know what he thinks of her.

Well, no. She reconsiders. That isn’t entirely true. Their attraction to one another is apparent and glorious. But it has been more than three months since their talk, since they first kissed and he agreed he could feel more for her than as simply a colleague. When she is in Skyhold, she spends her time with Cullen, but there has been precious little of that and each time she returns they find themselves trying to re-start and re-establish what they are trying to become.

She’s sure people notice. Certainly Cassandra has.

It was the last time Dorothea was in Skyhold. Cassandra had come looking for them in Cullen’s office . . . well, it was not clear the woman was looking for them, but her presence had been unannounced. Cassandra hadn’t even bothered to knock, something that always sets Dorothea’s teeth on edge, the way Cassandra just barges in where she thinks she ought to be.

Cullen simply smiled and beckoned Cassandra to join them at his desk. The woman would not sit and in his customary graciousness, Cullen stood next to her. He quickly laid out the pieces they were working on—trying to fit together Samson’s network to determine where to strike next—and waited for her input. Cassandra immediately saw what they had and also identified one more possible target near Highever, although she had agreed that Sahrnia was the most likely to bear fruit.

Then the woman simply left.

_“How do you bear that?”_

_Cullen, bent over an order for a reconnaissance party in the Approach, raises his head and lifts his eyebrow at me in question._

_I can feel my irritation prickling my skin and clenching my jaw. I work to keep the heat out of my tone; I fail miserably._

_“Cassandra,” I retort hotly._

_Cullen continues to stare at me, but he sits, folds his hands together on the table, and waits patiently. I blunder in despite the warning of the calmness of his body, the stillness of his torso and face._

_“She just storms in here, demands to know what you are doing, listens like some sort of marm, passes approval, and then saunters out, patting you on the head if she likes what she’s seen.”  My breathing is labored, my adrenaline riding high._

_Cullen watches me quietly, a watchful look in his eye. He speaks gently as you would to a startled animal. “What worries you from Cass?”_

_“Worries me!” I scoff. “She does not worry me.”_

_Cullen dips his chin toward his chest and speaks in a low, gentle tone: “I think she does because I do not believe you think little enough of me or Cassandra to believe a word of what you just said.” His tone is soft, but the tension—the warning—in his voice is definite._

_“I—” falter, puff out a breath. I am irritated and I am letting that override my judgment. I pull back out of my head, remove to my center where I go to greet the Fade. I think about what he has asked of me, what he challenges me with._

_“I—it’s you. I don’t like the way she hovers over you as if you need her help.”_

_He watches me in silence, visibly weighing my words. ”Cassandra,” he says softly, “cared for me and supported me at a time when no one else would have. I did need her help and I still value it. She is a true warrior, a good strategist, and a steadfast friend.”_

_I am speechless at his words as a feeling of discomfort sneaks over me._

_“She watches as is her nature; none of us can afford to falter or deny who we are now, Dorothea.”_

Dorothea breaks from her memory as a servant clears her cup and plate away. The girl smiles—fleetingly—and Dorothea briefly meets it and then bends to her parchment and ink pot. She rewrites Cullen’s words and wonders what has changed; is he sure of what they are together?

Dorothea runs back over what Cullen asked in his office. Does she imagine more than there is here? Is inviting her along just a way to deal with random nobles, assuming she will be able to talk to them and persuade them to what the Inquisition needs? To Arl Bryland and to Arl Teagan their arrival will seem simple enough: an honor bestowed while the field is assessed. Does she want more from this trip then there is to be had?

Her world still burns from the Grey Warden. She stares into the fire in Josephine’s office the other woman keeps lit despite the early Autumn sun that shines in the windows. Dorothea is not good at this, she thinks, this attraction. Sex? Sex she is good at. She understands her body, knows how to meet its needs, perceives its power, recognizes its strengths. Her family name always assured respect in the Tower and gave her control over her encounters. Blackwall—she stops herself— _the idea of_ Gordon Blackwall had seduced not her body, but her heart. In Haven she believed he mirrored her own feeling of being outside, of not belonging in this quasi-Chantry, semi-political structure. She thought it was because he was a Warden, not because he was a fraud.

_“My Lady.”_

_Blackwall turns to face me in the twilight from the moon. I have come to accept that I will never drift softly through the underbrush like Solas or, Andraste preserve me, like Cassandra seems to manage._

_I stand next to him and smile into the dark orbs of his eyes. “You don’t have to cling to formality; you could simply call me by my name.”_

_“But you are, a lady and the Herald—”_

_“Maker,” she guffaws, “don’t start calling me Herald or I will have to lump you in with the Spymistress and the Templar!”_

_He smiles at me, affection in the warmth of his gaze. “Will you forgive me if I continue as we are?”_

_“If I get to be your lady?” my tone teases, is light, but I lace my fingers into his to emphasize my sincerity. “By the Bride, yes.”_

Dorothea’s brow furrows as her mind sinks back to the present. Cassandra has just entered and Josephine greets her pleasantly. But it is Cullen who draws Dorothea’s attention.

He stands in the shadows in the recess between the door from the hall and the door to the Council room. His left hand rests on the pommel of his sword, the motion practiced and deceptively relaxed. His right hand, though . . .

His right arm hangs loose and limber at his side, his fingers gently curling and flexing with a tense motion. The motion is that of shifting a grip on a hilt that is not yet in his hand, settling the fingers before one prepares to strike. It is a subtle motion, but not unfamiliar to Dorothea: it is the stance of those who watch and ready to attack. It is the stance of the Templar.

Cassandra calls to Cullen from where she speaks to Josephine and the two begin to walk to the Council room, discussing the Empire.

“Inquisitor?”

Dorothea snaps her gaze away from the closed door to the Council hallway and into Josephine’s concerned gaze.

“Are you well, Inquisitor?”

Dorothea flashes a fast smile at Josephine, glances down at the parchment in front of her. “Almost finished, Josie,” she says, avoiding the Ambassador’s question. Dorothea signs off, adds her title, and completes the flourish of her signature. She sprinkles it with sand and stands. “I’ll walk it to the Rookery and retrieve Leliana, shall I?” Dorothea smiles with her lips and not her eyes and leaves before Josephine can recall her.


	3. Chapter 3

“If word of contact comes in, I have agreed with Leliana to send in a squadron reconnaissance party led by Iona. The general party deployment should buy her and her scouts enough cover—”

Cullen’s speech and movement are arrested by Cassandra’s hand on his shoulder. Her grip is sure, firm, and somehow formal, as is the look on her face. Cullen meets her formality with his own, “Lady Seeker?”

Without a word Cassandra gestures to the windows and begins to walk to them, expectant that he will follow. When he reaches her side she asks in a quiet tone that still manages to command: “What are you about with this trip?”

“I have concerns about Sulcher’s Pass, both for the Inquisitor but in particular for our re-supply after Wintermarch. If the southern passes are not clear, than the provisions from South Reach will have to travel to the North by the Imperial Highway; we could see numerous deprivations and we may lose many to starvation this winter. I think we all would not have a repeat of last year’s . . . leanness.”  His mind flashes to the pyres they had to use in deep winter when the ground was too hard to commit the dead.

Cassandra hums noncommittally, her arms crossed as she looks out the window. “All of which are things you could task someone else to do and all of which are certainly things you can do without the Inquisitor, and none of which explains a side jaunt through Redcliffe, an arling with which we are not likely to lose our alliance. So, I ask you again: what are you about with this trip?”

Cullen’s brow knits in concentration. He breathes deeply, trying to still his agitation. “It is a reasonable question,” he says softly, not aware he’s spoken out loud. The silence stretches on and he feels Cassandra’s gaze flick over to him.

“You are both on a knife’s edge,” Cassandra says softly. “Are you sure this is what is needed?” Cassandra’s voice holds a note of caution and concern.

“Need? Maker, no; I don’t know. But there is so little time, Cassandra. It may not be the best thing to do, the most reasonable thing to do for the Inquisition, but it is what I want, what I want for us.”

“Is it what she wants?”

He looks her in the eye, a little lost in the rushes, “I don’t know. Andraste preserve me if it is not.”

Cassandra nods her head in acceptance. “You will need to stop watching her like a wolf.”

“Pardon?”

“Before we came in here, when I walked into the office, you were watching her like a wolf watches a rabbit, preparing to sprint when she runs.”

“I suppose I am, if I am honest: ready to sprint. I think I have been since Adamant,” the admission quiets him. “I would have followed her willingly into the Fade.”

Cassandra snorts and says dryly, “With Dorothea just wait long enough, you may get your chance.” She pauses. “What if she would not follow you, though? With Blackwall . . . I do not believe she is certain what waits for her beyond the Veil. The sacrifice may be all yours, Cullen.”

“It would make no difference. My sword is hers, as it has been since the day she stepped out of the Breach,” he whispers to her.

Cassandra claps him on the arm. “You are not alone, my friend. She commands the loyalty of even those she would never thought to have called. Such are the graces of the Bride.” Cassandra smiles tightly and turns to the table where Josephine now stands, Leliana and Dorothea following along quickly behind. He squares his shoulders and moves to join the women.


	4. Chapter 4

Leliana worries.

The story feels the same.

She watched Neriana play along Alistair only to take Zevran to her bed. The Blight that took her nearly undid both of them.

She watched Celene fawn over Cailan, only to be relegated for Anora and duty.

She knew the Sunburst throne had claimed the Divine, vocation triumphing over her heart.

Cassandra had been little different.

The cares of the heart carry an exacting price. Marjolaine had taught Leliana that.

When the last winter’s low stores are brought forth and held aloft as reasons for them to go, Josie acquiesces readily to the absence of the Commander and the Inquisitor.

Josie will get her parties with her perfect guest list and a full day and a half of Dorothea’s schedule. Alliances have been won with fewer resources.

Cassandra is noticeably quiet, listening intently as the Commander describes possible reports, but otherwise she raises no questions. Leliana regards her in silence and the Seeker studiously ignores the Spymistress.

In the end, the meeting is all solicitation and agreement. Leliana makes a list of the ravens that will travel with the expedition and hands a list of the stores for the creatures to Jonas when he finds her later that afternoon in the rookery.

Loyalty. Fealty. These are not enough to suppress desire, especially when the one you desire does not want you.

She prays to the Maker late into the evening, reciting from Threnodies.

The next day fills with ravens from Ferelden, extensions of hospitality and solicitations of support. The Guerrin crest makes her smile in memory. She and Josie bend their heads over the missives. They meet with Cassandra who grunts approval.

None of them acknowledge that their non-martial, mage Inquisitor is setting off on a progress with her Commander. All three women pretend it isn’t happening, each keeping her own counsel.

On the following morning, Leliana notices a quiet energy around the Commander, what she suspects is barely concealed joy. She watches Cassandra pull him aside and, rather than take final directions from him, the Seeker has the look of delivering a lecture. The exchange is not lost on the Inquisitor, who already sits her horse, Hedda’s leads slack in Dorothea’s hands.

Leliana approaches Dorothea, the Inquisitor’s oiled, leather briefcase under her arm. She hands it up to the other woman. Dorothea doesn’t move to take it, but stares down at the Spymistress.

“Perhaps you will find a story to sing, Inquisitor.”

With a slinking glance at Cassandra who is glaring at Cullen as he stalks away from her, the Inquisitor takes the oiled leather from the Spymistress. “Who knows what we shall find?” Dorothea whispers quietly.

“Maker preserve you, My Herald.” Leliana steps away, moves to the edge of the courtyard and watches the party depart as light begins to fill the sky.

After the last wagon crosses under the portcullis she and the Seeker involuntarily meet each other’s eyes in passing as each woman returns to her own domain.


	5. Chapter 5

Cullen broods.

Perhaps he should have asked Varric or Dorian to come, too, and relieved some of this unrelenting tension. He inhales deeply and huffs a breath of air. But then this trip would be no different than Skyhold.

He returns his hands to sharpening the dagger from his boot. Dawn is just below the horizon. Jonas brings him a cup of coffee from the cook fire and asks if there is anything he can get for him or the Inquisitor. Cullen says no and dismisses Jonas to his own breakfast. Cullen continues to maintain his blade, now applying oil to the surface with the whetstone to remove grains of metal.

Behind him he hears the rustle of the Inquisitor’s tent flap as she comes out. He relaxes softly. These have been the best moments of their days together so far on the road. He is grateful for each one, holding it as a child would relish a sweet.

She has her blanket wrapped around her and she sits close to Cullen by the fire. He takes a sip of the coffee and then wordlessly hands it to her. She takes it with a sigh and grasps it between her hands, warming her fingers. As she sips it she moans softly in her throat, the slight mewl in her voice making Cullen pause in his ministrations to his dagger. He wipes the weapon on a rag and sheathes it in his boot. The action spurs a sigh from Dorothea and she tilts her head to his shoulder. He leans his nose to her head and breathes in the soft smell of sleep from her hair. She hums in appreciation, “Maker, you’re warm. Sometimes I wish my affinity was fire and not lightning so I didn’t get so blasted cold.”

Deciding to take her pronouncement as a suggestion, Cullen shifts her off his shoulder and reaches his arm around her to pull her in under his cloak. He silently curses that he already strapped his breastplate on, although thankfully he had not put on the rest of his plate yet. Dorothea tucks her legs to the side and shifts her blanket to her legs. Without the bulk of wool and cotton around them, the contours of her shoulders and arms are more apparent. He bends his head again to bury his lips in the crown of her head and they sit, neither speaking, Dorothea sipping the coffee, Cullen breathing in the scent of her skin.

Her voice drifts up to him after a while, “Where are we to today, Commander?”

He speaks softly, a murmur, into the crown of her head, “Today we will descend from Sulchur’s Pass, checking the watch towers to assess the rotation for the winter and continue through to the Arling of Redcliffe. By midday we will be at the edge of the arling near Calenhad, and we’ll stop there while we wait for a party of Leliana’s scouts to hike back out of Haven. They are a reconnaissance party from Korcari and Leliana wanted some additional information from Haven before she recalled them for the month. Our timing is just right that we will be able to get intelligence from further South than we intend to travel. If we hear of trouble or rifts, then we can redirect time and our energies.”

With hardly a warning Cullen senses Dorothea stiffen under his arm.

_Damn._

Every morning this is how they spend it. He carefully protects the quiet by their two tents, discouraging any of the others from joining him when he sits by the fire alone in the pre-dawn. He begins the day preparing his tools, caring for his weapons and armor. The first morning he had been cleaning his breastplate and checking the fasteners when she came out radiant and smiling. She seemed to startle at the sight of him in his shirtsleeves and gambeson, but she recovered to grin and chat amiably about . . . Maker, he can’t remember what about now, but he remembered smiling and drinking in the dance of the firelight and dawn in her eyes.

Then Jonas approached with coffee for them both and she had subdued, listening to him talk through the morning reports. Once Jonas was gone she was on her feet, ducking into her tent. He had felt unsure and had settled into breaking camp with the others as dawn claimed the horizon. When he saw her again that morning as they took to their mounts she had greeted him warmly, but distantly.

That same formality creeps in every morning. In the pre-dawn hush of camp, as the night’s watch comes to a close, he finds her at his side, talking, laughing, just being. Then as if it is a spell dissipated by the morning sun she retreats from them all. No. That wasn’t right: from him. She still jokes with the scouts, teases Jonas about the kitchen’s assistant he’s begun to court. She still is herself, that overwhelmingly open and free Inquisitor that captures them all. He feels her holding him at a distance, as she had after Redcliffe, as she had after the Approach, as she has these last few weeks. If she was anxious around him, he could begin to think how to deal with that. But this is something else. She is pulling back, moving cautiously. He can imagine many causes, but it seems likely the reason lies in an unmarked grave outside Val Royeaux.

“We are guests of the Arl for only two nights, we should be there tonight,” he hesitates, starts to tell her his plan, but then can’t bring himself to do so. He is fearful he will only get one chance to do this: “and then we make our way toward Lothering Crossroads,” he finishes.

“But we won’t travel on into South Reach,” she says, her voice a slight puzzle.

“No, there should be no need. Arl Bryland will meet with us at one of his outlying holds. He’ll confirm his arrival for us when we’re in Redcliffe so we can coordinate our meeting.”

She is silent. He sits still, waiting to see what she will do next. She sniffs, “Right.” Without another word Dorothea slips out of his grasp and scrambles to her feet.

“The road won’t wait,” she smiles tightly and disappears into her tent.

Cullen sits for a moment or two, staring into the fire, and then he rises to join the squad for breakfast and morning roll.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorothea ties her bedroll closed and picks it and her saddle bag up and walks to the horse line. She greets that morning’s groom. Hedda is already saddled and stands prettily next to the Commander’s charger, leaning into the other animal’s side. Dorothea chuckles and straps her belongings to her horse. She moves to pat the mare’s nose and palms some grain for her. “You don’t seem to have any problems talking to Gelgenig, do you girl?” Cullen’s charger regards her quietly and she tips her forehead to Hedda’s brow. She looks into the charger’s eyes as if the horse could substitute for the master.

_Why are we out here?_

The notion that neither she nor the Commander could have delegated this trip is ridiculous. Cullen had at least six lieutenants in Skyhold alone that could have undertaken this journey—and moved with less pomp and made shorter work of it—not to mention the agents in the field that could have done this in pieces in half the time. Dorothea knows Cullen is exacting in his attention to detail, but they aren’t out here calibrating trebuchets. No, they came as a lark, a bit of fun, a way to shift the relentless dynamic of Commander and Inquisitor.

She sighs and steps back from Hedda, absently patting the mare’s mane. Or, at least, that is what she had hoped they would do. So far this had been like one, long tactical exercise.

_Sweet Maker, what am I doing out here?_

She had hoped for . . . _what?_ Silliness. She had hoped for some damn romantic gesture, some sign that they spoke to one another beyond their positions, beyond their proximity. Cullen is a potently attractive man, she wonders if he even comprehends how alluring he can be. She would bed him at his first request.

But she waits. She waits because she wants. She wants . . .

_Probably something I damn well cannot have_.

The feeling of being watched rides with her even now. Dorothea knows he watches her, caught him again in Josephine’s office just hours after he asked her on this expedition. He waits. He watches. He watches because he doesn’t know what she will do next.

Dorothea is not sure what more she can do to gain his trust, help him to believe in her. She knows she has given cause to doubt her, her choices, her decisions. Sweet Andraste, she doubts some of her own calls. The decisions she’s made . . . some of them have been very bad.

_He may be attracted to a mage, but can he care for someone that stupidly unmakes the world because she doesn’t know any better?_


	7. Chapter 7

“You grew up in the Arling?” Dorothea nudges her horse next to Cullen’s. He has led them to walk to the rear of the cavalcade, trading the dust of the other’s passage in the hope for a bit of quiet conversation.

“Yes, on the western edge, away from the shores of Lake Calenhad, out toward the hills in the West.”

“Is your family still there?” She asks. Cullen concentrates on the reins in his hands, decides how to give her this information.

“No, they live in South Reach, now. The Blight came out of the Korcari Wilds and ranged across this part of Ferelden. Many places didn’t survive.” He smiles sadly at her to soften the darkness of the tale, “My village was no different.”

“Cullen, I’m so sorry. I—I had no idea how much you lost in the Blight.” Dorothea blushes in consternation. “You must think me an ass that I haven’t even bothered to read Leliana’s dossiers.”

Cullen’s head turns in surprise and his grip tightens reflexively on the rein causing Gelgenig to side step and stop short. He loosens his grip and regains Dorothea’s side. “Why would I think that?”

“Because I was tucked away in a Tower in Ostwick safe and sound while your country fought the terrors of nightmares.”

Cullen raises a hand as if to take hers, but halts the action, settles for: “I’m grateful you were safe in your tower. I would not have wished you to have been at Kinloch.”

_I would not have wished for you to have seen me at Kinloch._

“I . . .” Dorothea trails off. “Of course not. I didn’t mean—I just meant . . . oh, shit, I don’t know.” Dorothea’s shoulders slump and she rides in silence.

Cullen regards her, trying to think of a way to soothe her worries. After a few moments: “Dorothea, we can speak of Kinloch. To be very honest, I am grateful you haven’t read Leliana’s dossier on me. It’s accurate, but . . . it’s not me. Kinloch is not a tale I relish telling, and there are parts I won’t share, things of which I will not speak. But that doesn’t mean you cannot ask me for what I will give.”

Dorothea nods. She takes in a breath, her chest rising and her shoulders rolling back. “Is it difficult to be back in Ferelden, so close to where you grew up?”

“Not especially. I have travelled on Inquisition business since we’ve been to Skyhold. Haven was so far in the mountains that it scarcely seemed like the Ferelden I knew as a boy or young man, at least not the valleys and hills that I knew.”

“Have you seen your family since you returned to Southern Thedas?”

“I wrote my older sister when I left Kirkwall for Val Royeaux. I have sent a few more letters when there has been time to reassure them all of my safety.”

Dorothea whips around her head: “Val Royeaux? You’ve spent time in Orlais?”

Cullen chuckles at her incredulous expression and Jonas looks back at them at the surprising sound. “Surely my behavior at the Winter Palace was not _so_ inadequate.” Cullen smiles, his air sure and confidant. It is one of the things he enjoys most about getting to know others: they frequently underestimate him. It is a snare he has seen Dorothea fall for time and time again with him, and one she seems to walk into willingly.

This time is not different: she smiles, bemused, and prompts him: “Val Royeaux?”

He rides for a moment—his mind filled with images of the Grand Cathedral and Justinia—and then answers her. “Yes, at the Grand Cathedral. After I left Kirkwall, but before the Conclave, I joined the staff of the Divine.”

“In what capacity did you serve? Were you an assistant for Cassandra?”

“No. After the rebellion began and the Templars defected, chaos was everywhere and none worse than Southern Thedas. In Kirkwall my lieutenants and me, we managed with Aveline—the City guard captain—” he answers to her questioning look, “to create some sense of order.”

“It was infectious all along our side of the Waking Sea,” she interjects, her eyes unfocused in memory. “That Kirkwall continued to stand meant we did not dissolve into chaos in Ostwick. The Templars voted; some left. But our First Enchanter had already talked the Enchanters through the importance of staying. We had over 100 students under the age of majority.”

He is surprised at this: “Maker, I had no idea the Circle had gotten so large.”

“We were teeming. There had been a resurgence of mage children in the last few years and, with the prominence of a Trevelyan in the Circle, people felt some safety. So Ostwick followed Kirkwall, as I understand Markham followed us.”

Cullen rides with his memories for a few moments. “I did not realize Kirkwall had done that. Justinia—the Divine—she always alluded to our stabilizing influence in the Marches, but I had no idea we had helped other Circles.” He looks over to Dorothea, “I don’t know. What became of the Ostwick Circle and all of your apprentices?”

Dorothea is silent for a league. Cullen reads it as clearly as if she speaks. He allows the quiet to replace their conversation, a comforting arm of support. Finally she replies: “Leliana says we lost contact with them. It seems that after the Breach, chaos overtook Ostwick, the militias came out, and the Tower was overrun. It isn’t clear who survived and who didn’t.” She lapses into stillness and her eyes burn with tears. Hedda is disciplined enough that she continues to follow the cavalcade despite the fact that Dorothea no longer seems present to the horse. Unwilling to watch Dorothea float in her desolation on her own, Cullen halts his own horse and grabs the bridle on Hedda’s head. Jonas notices and turns, begins to make his way back to them. Cullen calls to Jonas to continue on, that they will catch up and Cullen dismounts.

She looks down to him, not really seeing him. Without a word he reaches for her waist, a hand on each side to take her weight. She falls into him and he lowers her to the ground, his movements sure and gentle. He simply holds her there, against him, the two of them alone on the road, hidden by their horses from the rest of the company ahead on the road. He holds her while she weeps for a loss she’s carried for months, carried and never mourned, carried and may never have noticed. She weeps for the world that is gone, the world that will not return, the world that left her in the ashes, the only survivor of her Circle.

Gradually she subsides and comes back to herself. With one arm still around her, Cullen reaches for his water skin, disentangles it from his saddle, and hands it to her. She takes it, sips, nods at him, and hands it back. She scrubs her hands over her face, swipes at her eyes and her cheeks, wipes her hands on her trousers to rid them of the moisture.

“Blight, I’m sorry,” she says, looking at the ground. “I don’t know—, I don’t know why—” she falters, stammers into silence.

Cullen cups her jaw with his hand, the leather grazing her tear-swollen check as he lifts her head to look in his eyes. “It will take time to accept they have gone beyond the Veil, that you are all that is left. But it will come.”

“Do you think they died screaming?” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “But I do know you could not have stopped it.” The sincere ferocity in his voice sets her lip to trembling and she squeezes her eyes shut as he places his lips on her forehead and waits for her shoulders to stop quaking.


	8. Chapter 8

When they move to retake their saddles she notices Cullen hesitates as she turns to her mare, as if he would say more. But then the moment escapes and they remount and ride briskly to catch the rest of the party. Once they are in sight of Jonas who has kept a vigilant eye for them to follow up the road, they settle to a walk and can speak easily again. Dorothea follows the thread she was unraveling before.

“Is it difficult to be this close to Kinloch? To be on Lake Calenhad?”

“Honestly, no, no more difficult than it is to be in the countryside I grew up in. I suppose it should be. But I was an idealistic boy then and didn’t know I was powerless so my memories of that time are pleasant. I just wanted to serve.”

“And now you’re an idealistic man with a great deal of power.” She smiles as he winces and gives her an uncertain look. “It is a compliment,” she insists and laughs. Then she grows serious. “You carry the easiness of remembering being that boy who believed and wanted to serve. I honestly do not have the faith of those around me. Even Leliana: for all of her uncertainty, her despair, it comes because of the core of faith. I’ve known so few devout mages. Even Vivienne is not a believer: her faith is in the institution and in her own power.” Dorothea’s face pulls out to the countryside around her and her voice drifts. “It is a hard thing to love a Bride that sold you into servitude with her love, to make you a tame thing.”

“Did the Circle try to tame you?” Cullen’s voice is low, pitched to ensure only she can hear. It is a theme he has asked of her before. She huffs a frustrated sigh; now, as always, she cannot fathom what he expects from her answers.

“Of course—” she throws him a tight smile over her shoulder “—how could it not? That’s what it is for.” She emphasizes the last word.

“And Templars?” he asks hesitantly. They have approached this topic before, danced around it. He fears the answers she won’t give him.

“Indeed.” They stare at one another. She rubs her head, shielding her eyes from the brilliant sun, dismissing the moment.

They come to a halt. They have reached the rest of the party who have dismounted. Fires are already started, and Dorothea recognizes some field scouts that have not travelled with them. It is the southern party who are to return to Skyhold.

The smell of rabbit greets her and makes her stomach rumble. She hands her horse to a scout who comes to welcome them. She greets Alyx and inquires about their camp, discovers they reached the rendezvous a day early. The rabbit she smells is the result of snares they have set in the area, trapping hares as a way to pass the time.

A bowl of fricasseed rabbit is pressed into her hands and she joins Cullen who has wondered off with Jonas and Iona, receiving reports from the scout.

“. . .no more than a morning’s ride from Redcliffe Village, Ser. It is close enough to the outlying farms of the arling that I believe it to be a long-term threat,” Iona is saying.

“Yes,” Cullen answers, tracing his ungloved finger over a map. “It will have formed here, won’t it?”

The scout peers over his arm and answers in a tone of surprise, “Yes, Ser.”

Cullen glances over at Iona, noticing her tone, “The hordes of the Blight came through here; there used to be a small village there—Gossmere—the Blight swallowed it. The Veil will be thin there.”

Dorothea perks up, “A new rift?”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Cullen answers formally. “It would be beneficial for us to deal with it before we leave Redcliffe. The scouts report there are no farms in the immediate area, but left to fester it could slow down supply routes in a few months when we need them the most.”

“By all means, Commander, let’s close it. Shall we head for it today?”

“As it isn’t a present danger, Inquisitor, I would suggest not today. We are expected by the Arl this evening and if we divert to the Rift, we will be late.”

“Yes,” Dorothea muses, “and the Ambassador would never let me hear the end of it. Plus, if the Arl has heard of it, he may ask for assistance, which of course we will provide . . .” she drifts off to look up into the lazy smile on the Commander’s lips.

“Yes, he will be most gratified, and his support will be yet again stronger.”

“Excuse me, Ser,” the scout interrupts. Cullen looks to her expectantly. “But Arl Teagan Guerrin is not in residence. He has journeyed to Denerim to meet with Lord Eamon Guerrin and the King. Arlessa Kaitlyn is in residence with her brother, Bevin. I believe they are anticipating your arrival, Sers.”

Cullen frowns at this news, but Dorothea is thoughtful. “Thank you, Jonas, Iona. If that is all, go to your lunches. The Commander and I will confer,” dismissed, the two soldiers make their way off.

Cullen sighs loudly after they are alone. “Well, so much for Josephine’s carefully laid plans. Even though we’re on schedule, I think she will make this out to be my fault for missing the Arl.” Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and Dorothea watches his consternation, thoughtfully chewing her rabbit.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Have you met the Arlessa?”

“No. Eamon was still in Redcliffe when I left for Kirkwall, I didn’t even know Teagan had taken the arling until I came to the Inquisition.” Dorothea thoughtfully nods as she listens. “Isn’t she from Orlais?” Cullen asks.

“Mmmm, no,” Dorothea swallows and gestures with her spoon as she thinks and talks. “She’s a commoner, but wealthy in her own right. She’s from here, but she left—with her brother, I think—during the Blight and the troubles in Redcliffe. She is the proprietress of a successful Foundry in Denerim. My father favors her shields, they are apparently a specialty of her house.” Dorothea eyes him speculatively, “It could be, Commander of the Inquisition, that the Arlessa is eager to receive us for reasons that have little to do with the Inquisitor.”

Cullen takes a dagger from his waist and examines it thoughtfully, absently taking an apple from the table that was being used to weight the map against the breeze. He cuts into it, offers a slice to Dorothea, takes one into his mouth off the edge of the blade. “Perhaps this will be a useful stop to the Inquisition after all.” Dorothea cocks her head at him in unasked question. “I grew up not far from here. Tomorrow we should address the rift and then there is the formal dinner that night, but after we leave the castle the next morning I would like to show you something, if you will.”

“You mean all of us traipsing through the woods?” –a rueful smile— “Josephine will lament the schedule we keep.”

“Arl Bryland will meet us as we send word; he is not one to stand on ceremony, so Josephine’s schedule should not go awry. But, no, I thought just us.”

Dorothea locks her eyes with Cullen’s. He gazes at her, drinking in the warmth of the easy smile that spreads across her face. “I would like that,” she answers softly.

“Good,” he murmurs. He reaches across, cups her fingers with his hand, and lifts them to his lips. He presses a kiss into her knuckles and then straightens. “I should find my lunch, too,” and he smirks deliciously as he stands and reclaims his dagger, gripping the rest of the apple in his hand and biting into it.

As he turns to go, Dorothea calls after him: “I got to say what the Circles were for, earlier. But, if I get to say what the Circle is for, perhaps you get to say what the Order is for.”

With no hesitation, as if the answer laid in his mind this entire time: “To protect, to the last breath.”

She answers, “The last breath of the Mage? Vigilance?” Her eyes search him for an answer, for understanding, for knowledge.

“No,” he says softly, his head bends slightly and he closes his eyes. “To the last breath of the Templar.”

“Sacrifice?” she asks.

He nods once. He looks up briefly. She nods her head in acknowledgement of what he’s given her. As he walks away to retrieve his lunch, Dorothea ponders what he’s implied. His words fly in the face of what she’s witnessed and understood about the Order as machinations of control. It has not been something she’s understood about Cullen, and she begins to see why.

If the Order is there to protect, to stand _with_ the righteous and not _be_ the righteous, than the purpose—the Order’s purpose—could be so very different, she realizes. If the Order could be redefined to protect—and if it could be done without a leash to the Chantry—then perhaps, just maybe, Templars and Mages could stand together, even beyond Corypheus.


	9. Chapter 9

Cullen washes his face and neck in the wash basin and regards his hair in the mirror. The humid air around the lake has set it into a tangle of curls. He sighs in consternation; he could either shave or set his hair to rights. Kirkwall’s sea air had been dry enough with the constant breeze in from the sea and Skyhold’s air was even drier; he was beginning to remember why he had kept his hair so short as a younger man.

The tour of the castle had been fascinating. The steward assigned to show him the building and grounds was a lifetime retainer of the Guerrin family and colored the walk with many stories. He had taken particular pride in showing the entrance where the Hero of Ferelden entered the castle during the Blight. Thankfully, the man had not dwelt on what they had experienced at Connor Guerrin’s hands. As they retraced back up to the ground floor, Cullen discretely sent a pair of guards down to watch the entrance before he made his own way to the guest quarters. He doesn’t exactly doubt the legend of insignia rings and magic entrances—in fact he could feel the force of it thrumming when they were on the other side of the door—but he will not be careless with Dorothea’s life.

As he finishes removing his clothes and wiping away the sweat and fug of horse travel in the hip bath waiting by the fire, he concedes that that is the problem precisely. She is not simply the Inquisitor or even the Herald for him any longer, and he is more than just attracted to her: he is enthralled by her. He spent weeks after the man was gone working alongside of her and denying what he could be feeling. When he could no longer deny it, it had felt like a switch which set him on fire inside.

When all this began he could never imagine finding this along the way. Despite that this relationship still does not feel solid, still is not defined, he wants to help her, to make sure she comes back every time. The darkness of what they face—of what she will face in the end—he . . . he will literally move armies to make it easier. He scoffs at himself, at the thought as he towels off. It is ridiculous, of course; the Commander can’t afford to value her above her purpose. She is a fighter—their most valuable soldier, to be sure, the most valuable soldier to all of Thedas—but she is simply a fighter in this war.

As he buttons his coat and straps on his sword he acknowledges that this excursion is precisely because he does look beyond her purpose, though. They aren’t out here because the Commander needed her to come out; Cullen did. The time for Duty and Sacrifice will come soon enough, he thinks, for now he will let there just be this moment.

He extinguishes the lamp by the fireside and moves to the hall and heads to the lounge where the Steward indicated earlier they should gather before supper. When he enters there is a woman already there reading a slim book. He hesitates at the threshold, but his pause is not needed as she immediately looks up and smiles. She puts aside her book and rises, beckoning him into the room with her hand extended to greet him.

“Commander Rutherford, it is a pleasure to meet the leader of the men and women who helped to save our home.”

He takes her extended hand and bows over it to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Arlessa Guerrin it was our duty to help to secure Ferelden. We were pleased to assist.”

She is uncommonly tall and her bearing puts him strangely in mind of Leliana. Her hair must have been a brilliant red at one time, but age has begun to soften it into auburn. Long features show only the barest hint of wrinkles and Cullen thinks she must only look the mid-forties her dossier claims her to be when she is woeful.

Pleasure and a sense of calm radiates from her slender frame today, however.

“Please, Commander, we are both Ferelden, let us not stand on the ceremonies of the Orlesian,” and she grasps his forearm in a firm grip. “Let us do away with titles and positions. I am simply Kaitlyn as I was the day the Blight found me, as I was the day Teagan asked me to marry him. Through it all, I am still myself.” She smiles at him and Cullen returns the smile reflexively.

It has been a very long time since he heard this old greeting but the form comes to his mind easily: “I am Cullen, then, as I was the only other time I was in this castle and as I was when I went into the service of the Divine. Through it all, I am still myself.”

“Yes, so we are, so we have been.” She smiles and then relaxes, the old forms observed. “Please, sit with me as we wait upon the others. You grew up in Honnleath?” He is slightly surprised and it shows on his face as he nods at her question. “When the Commander of the largest standing army in Southern Thedas if from your arling, you find out everything you can about him.” She smiles unapologetically and Cullen follows her and sits.  “I am sorry it was lost. Did your family get out?”

“My siblings did, but my parents perished.” Cullen is surprised she hadn’t known this, too, but believes perhaps she is just being polite by asking. “You left for Denerim on the heels of the Blight, did your family survive?” he asks.

“My brother and me,” but she waves off the question with a slight grimace of dismissal. “When were you in the castle before? Was it a feast day?”

“Of sorts; Arl Eamon would host the Templars when they came to recruit. When children of the arling would go, he would hold a large celebratory party for the village and the families would be the guests of honor.” Cullen laughs and smiles to remember. “I had only been to Redcliffe a handful of times with my father to bring the harvest in for trade, and only seen the castle from afar. It was early summer, the crops were in, and I had spent all winter asking my mother and father if I could go to train. It was an unusual recruitment year, and the irregularity of it lent excitement to it. The Templars had just been through two years before, so they were a year early in coming. There were games and travelling merchants in the village. Families like mine were given accommodations by the Arl in the village.” Cullen is quiet as he remembers. “The inn was on the hill, not too far from the mill, perhaps you remember it? The Blight must have taken it. There were cakes and pies, sausages and jacket potatoes. For a village boy, it was the most opulent thing I had ever seen.”

“How old were you?” she asks.

“I was 13.”

“You must have known the king.”

“Not well. In training they try to match you with others not from your home arling. We were never in class together, but we were familiar to one another. Of course, he left to join the Grey Wardens; had he taken vows, been assigned to Kinloch . . .” Cullen trails off.

“Yes,” Kaitlyn says simply. “Our country would look very different.”

They each sit in their own silence for a time. Even Leliana has never thought to ask if he knew the King of Ferelden from before. Alistair had been in the Hero’s party at Kinloch, of course. It had hurt, at the time desperately, to know that Alistair had not been more forceful in taking Cullen’s side to perform the Rite. He wonders after Kirkwall—if he had to live it again—would he still call for the Rite? Part of him knows he might and that it might be the voice of himself that prevailed.

The quiet is interrupted by the door opening and the sound of Dorothea’s laugh carries into the room. Unlike himself, she does not wear an Inquisition dress uniform. She is clothed in a simple dress, the bodice’s neckline is square cut and reveals her strong collar bones and lays open to the beginning swell of her cleavage. The waist is high and drapes in voluminous folds, the dress gathering and moving over light crinoline that rustles as she walks. A blood red sash of silk gathered around the waist drapes to the floor behind her, elongating her figure and accentuating the regal tilt of her head. Cullen breathes in deeply through his nose. She is far lovelier than he could have conjured.

Behind her enters a handsome, sandy-brown haired young man who has seen no more than 25 winters. Cullen takes in the way the boy delights in Dorothea’s smile as he holds the door for her, passing her over the threshold with his hand supporting hers. Cullen knows the other man’s appreciative gaze only echoes his own, but it stirs a feeling of disquiet in Cullen’s gut.

As Dorothea enters the room she looks about and catches Cullen’s gaze. Her smile deepens as she sees his appreciative and vaguely hungry stare at her.

“Ah, Bevin, you found the Lady Inquisitor. Commander Cullen Rutherford may I introduce to you my brother, Bevin Poulson.”

Flustered, Cullen bows, mutters, “My Lord.”

It takes a moment before he feels the awkward silence as his gaze drifts back to Dorothea. “My apologies, I am being remiss. Lady Kaitlyn Guerrin, Arlessa of Redcliffe, may I present Lady Dorothea Trevelyan of Skyhold, Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle, Herald of Andraste, and Inquisitor.” Cullen glances to the Arlessa who looks at him, not Dorothea, with an evaluative expression.

Dorothea interjects: “We have met. Thank you for the dress, Lady Guerrin. It is the most exquisite fit.”

“It is our pleasure, my Lady Inquisitor. As I said, saddlebags are fine for the road, but sometimes it is pleasant to take dinner in something more elegant.” The Arlessa pauses for a moment, glances at Cullen, and then looks directly at Dorothea. “Your Commander seems to have managed, though, uncommonly well. Don’t you agree, My Lady?”

“Yes,” replies Dorothea, “but he always does. He seems to answer any contingency and provides a solution when I have need of it.” Dorothea says the last staring at Cullen with a smile.

“Well,” the Arlessa lightly claps her hands together, “we are all here, a modest table for this evening to be sure, but I hope it is welcome since you are both so fresh from the road. Tomorrow we will entertain. Bevin, will you lead the Lady Inquisitor into dinner?”

Bevin extends an arm to Dorothea, bowing slightly at his waist in deference, “My Lady.”

Dorothea smiles and begins to reach for his arm, and then stops, “But only if you agree to call me Dorothea.”

“As you wish . . . Dorothea,” Bevin smiles and secures her hand on his arm. Cullen breathes carefully through his nose as he watches the interaction and does not realize the Arlessa approaches him until she speaks.

“It seems your Inquisitor does not stand on ceremony either.” Kaitlyn slips her hand onto Cullen’s offered arm and they follow the others to the hallway.

“She welcomes and embraces all those she meets. It is she—her heart—that lies at the center of the Inquisition’s successes,” Cullen declares as they walk slowly down the hall.

“Certainly her success at the Winter Palace: to successfully transition Gaspard to the throne with no more bloodshed, it is remarkable. But one hears stories: Caer Bronach in the Fallow Mire; Adamant; Griffon Wing; most certainly Haven. Surely there must be some accolades that may be laid at the feet of the Commander of these men and women?” Kaitlyn smiles at him winningly as she offers the compliment.

“No more so, Lady Kaitlyn, than our Seneschal or Ambassador; we are a strong team.” The Commander answers formally as they enter the dining hall.

“Yes, forgive me. It is idle chatter to try to flatter you. But I forget you are Ferelden,” Cullen holds out her chair. As she moves to sit, she leans in to him, her hand on his arm, “I would like to speak business with you after dinner. I believe I may offer services that you can make use of.” Cullen bows his head in acknowledgement and moves around the table to sit across from Dorothea.

Dinner passes effortlessly. Even though it was his idea, Cullen had not anticipated feeling this relaxed in Redcliffe. Conversation is easy and startlingly real after the machinations in Halamshiral. The food is elegant and abundant with the fullness of the growing season apparent in each course and the wine is heady, a rich red grown in the lowlands east of Calenhad.

When they adjourn to a drawing room for port, a trio sits in the corner. “They will be with us tomorrow night,” Kaitlyn explains, “and I thought a bit of music would be pleasant for this evening.” Dorothea exclaims in delight and the Arlessa accepts the compliment with a wave of her hand.

They sit and listen to several pieces. Cullen watches Dorothea. Her face is rapt with joy and when the musicians finish after about fifteen minutes, she jumps to her feet to personally thank each of them. Bevin accompanies her, standing at her right. It is obvious the young man is taken with her.

Throughout dinner the man’s eyes had gravitated to Dorothea and her adventuresome tales. Many of her excursions that she shared were details he already knew from reports and scouts’ relays, but he didn’t know the _stories_. His appreciation for her companions broadened as she told about their encounters, and Bevin—a young man still ready to claim his fortune—lapped up the exploits.

Cullen broke from his musing to see Bevin trying to convince Dorothea, “. . .we must practice together. I would so enjoy having a _cotillion_ tomorrow, but I need to know someone will join me.” Bevin turns to the musicians once Dorothea begins to relent and say yes, “The Purcell?” he asks and the violinist nods and sits.

Dorothea laughs, looks over at Cullen, and shrugs her shoulders in a helpless gesture of joy. Dorothea starts to join Bevin, hesitates, and then turns to ask, “Will the Arlessa join us?” she says, but looks at Cullen.

“No, my dear, this is not my style of dancing. I will monopolize the Commander over here while you help Bevin figure out if he knows what he is about.”

The lone violinist starts with a long, intricate rill on the violin. Dorothea meets Bevin in the turns of the dance as they dip and bob back and away from each other. Dorothea smiles encouragingly at Bevin who struggles slightly with the flow of the dance and she jubilantly calls out to him to correct his steps as he laughs at himself.

“She is lovely, is she not?” the Arlessa beats her hand in time on her knee as the viola joins the song.

“Yes. She has captured the attentions of many admirers,” Cullen says softly, stiffly holding his port on his knee.

“I imagine she has the adoration of many who work alongside of her,” the Arlessa says quietly.

Cullen swallows and feels his adam’s apple bob over the collar of his dress coat. He clears his throat: “She does,” and he sips from his glass.

Kaitlyn sighs and says quietly, “I hope you seize your happiness, then.” Cullen looks at her and she smiles wanly. “I hope I—we—have not offended. Bevin is young and I would see him happy and settled. But he is a sweet boy and stealing the heart of someone would be the furthest from his desires. I will speak to him tomorrow when you journey to the Rift in the south.”

“Surely when he takes the arling he will be able to have his choice of advantageous matches,” Cullen observes.

“I do not anticipate that the Crown will settle Redcliffe on Bevin, Cullen. He’s a smart lad, but no warrior, he has no title, and he is not a Guerrin. No, I do not know where King Alistair will settle the arling. It has all become quite a tragic mess.” She sighs, the first sign of weariness Cullen has yet seen from her falling over her features.

“There is no heir?” he asks.

“No.”

By now the dance has come to an end and Dorothea and Bevin applaud the musicians. Kaitlyn joins in, halting their conversation. Cullen does the same and sees Dorothea gesture to one of the instruments and begins to talk to its owner as Bevin casually calls to his sister: “One more for the night, Kait?”

The Arlessa responds, “On condition that you not make me dance tomorrow,” and she smiles at her brother. Bevin leans to the man with the viola and whispers. The musician listens, nods, and picks up a six-string guitar and checks the tune. Bevin turns to his sister and indicates that the floor is hers. “Do you know the galliard, Commander?” Kaitlyn asks.

“Surprisingly enough, I do,” he says, draining his port and standing. “May I ask the pleasure of the dance?” As the Arlessa gives him a radiant smile, he sees Dorothea’s look of surprise that he will dance.

“Did you know Kait met Teagan at a Court Dance? She is remarkable on her feet,” Bevin says to Dorothea.

“Oh?” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Did you hear that, Cullen? You are with a master.”

“Perhaps the Arlessa will be gracious to me,” he says casually. Cullen leads Kaitlyn to the clear floor in front of the musicians and bows. The guitar begins in a firm strum as Kaitlyn bows and then she is called into a light footstep by the music, lifting her skirts and kicking out her heels as she delicately leaps in place.

A second guitar joins the first in an alto line, and Cullen meets Kaitlyn in a movement of steps as each orbit around the other. His hands reach out for her arms as they kick and move together in the steps. Cullen hears Dorothea laugh in delight and Bevin claps. Then the guitars move deeper into  the dance and Bevin pulls Dorothea to join in, although neither is as proficient with the older, less fashionable dance.

The Arlessa takes one look at the newly come, bungling couple and firmly calls, “Switch!” and he and the Arlessa part and spin to their new partners in time for the courante. Cullen places one hand along Dorothea’s waist at the swell of her hip and his other on her elbow. She lays both her hands on his chest as she faces him. Cullen guides her, leading through the rest of the steps as they move alongside each other, dipping in to one another’s bodies. His eyes take in her teeth worrying her lip as she tries to get the steps. Her movements are unsure and move than once she collides into him and on impulse Cullen circles his arm around her waist, pulling Dorothea into him so that her feet just skim the floor. He continues in the steps of the dance as the dual guitars finish.

The Arlessa’s and Bevin’s clapping brings him back to where he is and he returns Dorothea to her feet and steps slightly back. Dorothea regards him with a look of wonder, her surprise at seeing this aspect of the Commander apparent. As the musicians bow, Cullen notices Bevin has been watching the exchange between Cullen and Dorothea. The boy looks wistful and when he sees Cullen spy him, he tilts his head in acknowledgement.

Cullen and Dorothea join in in thanking the musicians for the evening and Kaitlyn breaks away and motions to Cullen, “Shall we talk some business? I have a particularly fine whiskey from the Reach.”

Cullen agrees and turns to Dorothea. “Inquisitor, the Arlessa would like to discuss her business interests.”

“Kaitlyn, may I leave you in the hands of my Commander? Lucas,” Dorothea points at one of the musicians, “has a particularly fine lute from Antiva and he has consented to sit with me to explore it.”

Kaitlyn smiles, nods, and leads Cullen to the other side of the room to a seating area by the large fire. She murmurs to the manservant and he hurries off on her errand. As she moves to a chair, she asks him: “You carry a dagger on you?” He nods. “May I?” and she holds out her hand.

Cullen removes the dagger from his boot and hands it to her. Her look of surprise at the weapon is followed by one of gratification. With a thoughtful purse to her lips she returns it to him, hilt out, and then motions for him to sit. “So you are familiar with my steel already?” she asks as they sit.

“Yes, it was a gift from the Right Hand of the Divine on my assumption of a post with the Divine’s Office. I had left the Order and begun to feel uncomfortable in Templar plate, so the Divine commissioned a new suit for me. The blade the Seeker presented to me, herself. There were times when not being seen to carry a sword was beneficial.”

Kaitlyn accepts this answer readily enough. “We have not made many of them but we have made the transition from founding to forging, and we are ready to begin production of weapons on a larger scale. That one has been made recently, so the balance is very good, but in the last year we’ve gotten better—ah, Willem, thank you.” The servant she sent off a moment ago returns holding a box and he leads several other servants. One carries a tray with a decanter and tumblers and the others carry various shields. Willem stands before the Arlessa and holds a box for her. She opens it and, after scanning its contents, motions for Cullen to look with her. “—I think you will find these even better balanced.”

Cullen is surprised when he picks up the blade. As he tips it back and forth, it is as if it rolls between his fingers. “For throwing?” he asks.

“Yes, but also heavy enough to serve someone who wields small melee weapons.” She picks up a dagger from the box, the length putting it closer to a dirk. “We have managed the balance with a longer blade, too, for the duel wield specialist.”

Cullen takes the dirk and is astounded at the firm feel of it in his hands. The pommel ends in a round, concave metal disc. His thumb and middle finger nestles there perfectly and the blade begs to be thrown. “Remarkable,” he mutters and replaces them.

The Arlessa nods her head, closes the box, and says, “A gift; Willem will give them to your attaché for your journey back.”

“Thank you. I am sure our—Seneschal—will be most interested in them.”

Kaitlyn nods her head and smiles. Cullen senses that his promise to show them to Leliana has been her goal all along. “But, I think you may be most interested in these,” and she gestures for them to approach the four servants carrying shields: a tower, a kite, a heater, and a buckler. He looks at each one, handling them, and then returning them to the servant. Kaitlyn approaches and hands him a tumbler. She raises her glass and says, “Absent friends.” Cullen echoes the sentiment and sips the strong liquor.

“We offer a range, as you can see, and can produce upwards of 100 completed shields a day, more if I re-focus all of my production efforts. We have been the standard supplier for the Grand Tourney for many years and our quality is known from the Southron Hills to the Anderfells. I can have 1,000 shields at Skyhold by the time you return, and I have trade routes over Orlais, the Free Marches, and Nevarra, as well as Ferelden, and can send stock to wherever you choose.”

She sips her whiskey and turns to her chair to sit. “I will not be the cheapest option you will find, but I am competitive and can deliver what I promise. If you train them how to survive, Commander, then I can give you the tools you need so they can.” Cullen nods, looking at the servants, acknowledges each in the eye, and turns to join the Arlessa.

Kaitlyn dismisses the servants and watches Cullen intently.

“How did you move from Denerim to supplying the Grand Tourney?” he asks, curious to know more about this woman.

“Teagan,” she says simply. “Teagan’s heart, since I’ve known him, has always been as a Marcher. He and Eamon grew up in Ansburg. Teagan only ever came back to Ferelden because Eamon asked him to do so to take up Rainesfere, but it meant Teagan missed his opportunity for the Tourney. Teagan loves the Tourney; he almost had Cailan convinced to begin one in Ferelden, then the Blight came. He introduced my work to the Tourney’s organizers and helped to secure the contract.”

“It must be profitable for you both.”

“No, just for me. When we wed Teagan had a contract made and sanctioned by King Alistair that the Foundry—and all its revenues—are mine to dispense as I see fit. After my death, it will pass to Bevin.” She takes a long pull of her whiskey.

“So,” Cullen follows the thread from earlier, “you would see Bevin wed well to maintain his social connections, but surely you will not pass before him. The Guerrin name will continue to open doors for him for some time to come, I would think.”

“Perhaps, but I believe I will live beyond Teagan and then Redcliffe Castle will no longer be our home. Teagan has not been well these last few years. There have been . . . hard . . . things to face. After Isolde died, Eamon’s wife, and Eamon retreated to Denerim to support Alistair, well,” she drinks, “Teagan took her death hard, as I understand it. He took on Redcliffe for Alistair’s sake, to maintain a strong ally in the Landsmeet, but, with both Connor and Isolde gone, he was lost.” She looks into the firelight, swirling the whiskey in her tumbler. “That is when I met him. I had supplied materials for the Wardens and was invited to Court to receive the appreciation of the King and Warden-Commander du Morellus. We danced that night and laughed. The next day he paid court to me and two months later we were married. On my wedding day Eamon told me that the night Teagan danced with me was the first night Eamon had heard Teagan laugh since before Connor died.

“Teagan was lonely here, and he finds it hard to stay in the castle, even after we married. There were too many ghosts, I think, too much that had gone before. Then, with our own son, there were more ghosts. Teagan had never even wanted Redcliffe, but Eamon always gets what he wants, and he wanted to leave Redcliffe, so Teagan took it all on. But he never loved it.” She smiles wanly. “I was good for him; I love Redcliffe enough for both of us.”

“Your son?” Cullen asks gently, confused.

She pours more whiskey in her own glass, offers some to Cullen, which he accepts. She looks into the depths of her glass. “We had a son for ten days. After that, Teagan would never stay longer in Redcliffe than he needs to. Isolde died birthing Rowan, and Alistair might have tried to settle Redcliffe on her. But on her eighth name day, she came into her magic. Even King Alistair cannot give an arling to a mage child, even if that child is his cousin.”

“Kinloch, the Circles, is she . . . ?” Cullen feels a dull flight of panic for this little girl.

“Safe in Denerim; Teagan himself led a squad of men to Kinloch after word came about Kirkwall. Kinloch still held then, and the First Enchanter gave leave for her to visit her cousin, the King. She is safe, although still far from her Harrowing and now . . . well, no thing seems sure in this world where the Veil tears to leave holes in the sky.” She sits, not looking at him. But, at her mention of the Breach, she returns to the present. She looks around, focuses on Cullen with warm, slightly moist eyes. “Such a way you have about you that you ask one question and I just unburden myself of all my thoughts.”

“These are dark times, Arlessa, and those of us who deal in war and death need others with whom to share our burdens.”

“Yes, we do.” She smiles at him. “Who is yours? That pretty lady over there?” His features pale and grow rigid. Kaitlyn grunts softly to herself, “—No? One wonders what may stop you.”

Unwilling to acknowledge the truth of her statement, Cullen throws back his whiskey and says, “Send 500, an assortment of tower and heater, to Skyhold with proposed terms and delivery schedules into the spring, Arlessa, and we shall see how we get on.”

She smiles and extends her hand to shake his as they rise to stand, “How many are you looking to outfit ultimately, Commander?”

“Honestly, Arlessa? I’ll outfit the whole Maker-damned world if it takes that to destroy Corypheus.”

They move to join Dorothea who still sits with Lucas and Bevin. She is strumming and playing, both men rapt as they watch her fingers fly over the frets. He and Kaitlyn enter the circle of warmth that Dorothea folds around her effortlessly. He knows she doesn’t understand this effect she has, to inspire devotion. Her guilelessness with it is part of what charms him.

As she moves from the tricky refrain into a legato section, she raises her head from her finger work where she has been coaxing out a conversation with the instrument. Her eyes are closed as she lifts her head, tilting her ear as she winds the final phrases and with delicate movement of fingers, she strums the last expression of the gavotte.

The musician holds his breath and in an explosion of air and joy he applauds ferociously. The Fereldens follow suit and Dorothea opens her eyes on her makeshift audience, flushed with pleasure from the song. She bows her head and looks to Cullen: “Is your business concluded, Commander?”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” he answers, his face soft with the pleasure of her happiness. “We found an accord.”

Dorothea smiles and looks to the Arlessa. “With your permission, then, My Lady Host, I would like to sing a song for our suppers. I knew nothing of Ferelden before I came to the Conclave and the Inquisition,” Dorothea glances briefly at Cullen, looks back to Kaitlyn, “save what I knew about the Blight. But the more I know of it, the more I value its people and its steadiness. Ruled by a Grey Warden, none of you are strangers to loss, and yet you do not hide from it.” Dorothea pauses, searches Kaitlyn’s face slightly. She takes a breath: “so I would sing for you a song from Skyhold. It has not made it into Thedas yet my Seneschal tells me, so it seems fitting that here in the Castle of Redcliffe I offer it to the world,” Dorothea gestures to Lucas who nods his head enthusiastically and removes a notebook and pencil from his chest pocket.

Kaitlyn smiles, looks to Bevin who trades a reassuring glance, and she opens her hand palm up as a wordless invitation for Dorothea to continue.

Dorothea hands the lute to Lucas and takes up his six-stringed guitar and begins the opening threads.

Maker,  
have you left me here  
  
Temple  
Sacred Ashes  
  
Tragic  
Mark upon our land  
  
Sky fall,  
Let Darkness reign on thee.  
  
Now flee  
From the Dragon’s heart  
  
Warring  
Battle-scarred eyes  
  
Breach  
Into the Fade has Come  
  
Demon  
please spare my life  
and our sons.

Cullen has heard this song around warming fires on the wall, where the tune has been carried by his men on the battlements during guard rotation. He has heard the song sung plaintively on the field after Adamant with the stench of pyres in the air competed with the smells of wood smoke and cook fires. But he has not yet heard it like this, calling a place of loss and ache from inside of him.

Tears stand in the Arlessa’s eyes as Dorothea finishes and grows quiet. “Thank you, my Lady Herald. Lucas, will you have that prepared for tomorrow? We will begin our evening with a remembrance for the Divine, for Connor, for . . . for those we have lost, may Andraste bless us all.” As Lucas murmurs his assent, Kaitlyn stands. Cullen and Bevin do the same. “I will bid you all a pleasant evening and,” she turns to the Inquisitor, “good hunting tomorrow, my Lady.”

With that the Arlessa takes her leave. Cullen turns his gaze to Dorothea and he tilts his head to her in acknowledgement of something well done.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning Dorothea wakes in the large, opulent bed with a sense of loss. While her back in no way misses her bedroll, she feels the absence of Cullen, of being able to duck outside of her tent and find him waiting, the raw, caged power of him sitting blithely near her.

Blinking her eyes, she realizes what woke her is a servant girl. The girl has brought a tray of food and the smell of coffee winds its way to Dorothea’s nose. She rises and goes to collect a cup. The girl kneels at the hearth, stirring the coals and relaying a fresh fire. Dorothea watches the girl as she sets a new blaze and then rises and curtsies.

“M’lady,” she says in greeting. “The Arlessa wishes me to inquire if you need help preparing for the day?” Dorothea smiles. She hasn’t had a maid servant ask her that since she was thirteen. Even in Halamshiral she had been “attended” by the Spymistress and the Ambassador.

“Your mistress is very kind, but no, thank you. We travel to close a rift this morning, and I will dress myself in my leathers. However, when we return, a bath and assistance in preparing for the party would be very welcome if your mistress can spare you . . . ?” Dorothea asks openly, looking for the girl’s name.

“Yes, m’lady. It’s Maddalena, my Lady, although most call me Maddy.”

Dorothea smiles, drinks from her coffee, “That’s a very exotic name this far south, Maddy.”

“Yes, m’lady. I’m not Redcliffe born. I grew up in Denerim, ma’m, but my mum was Rivani by birth. She fled the Blight with me to Denerim, so I don’t know where in Ferelden I was born.”

“She does not live, then?” Dorothea’s tone is solicitous.

Maddy smiles softly, “No, m’lady. I was orphaned when I was seven. Mistress Kaitlyn—” Maddy blushes and stammers, “—I mean, the Arlessa took me in, at the Foundry?” Dorothea nods to show she understands. “She taught me to cast metal—pots, not forging—and then when I reached my majority she offered for me to learn another trade.”

“Being a lady’s maid?”

“Oh, yes, m’lady. The Arlessa believes every woman should have more than one way to survive, so she can make choices.” Maddy blushes and smiles, realizing she’s let her tongue get quite away from her. “I beg your pardon, my Lady, I’m sure you don’t want to hear me going on about things you know quite well, you yourself having so many opportunities, my Lady,” Maddy finishes, a bit breathless.

“Not at all; your mistress sounds quite remarkable.”

“I’ll leave you now, if you like, but I’ll be available at the end of the hall if you have need of me, and I’ll have everything in waiting for your return.” At Dorothea’s nod of her head, the girl curtsies, smiles, and turns to go.

As Maddy reaches the door, Dorothea calls after her, “Maddy, will breakfast be taken to the Commander?”

“Oh, yes, my Lady. Robert and I came up at the same time. The Arlessa said you would be riding out together this morning.”

“Yes, we will be. Maddy will you also ensure that the Commander has a bath and fresh linens when we return? I imagine he will have thought to manage on his own and will not have asked.”

“It would be my pleasure, my Lady, I will mention it to Robert,” and with that Maddy excuses herself and closes the door behind her, leaving Dorothea alone.

She stares at the door. It is amazing to her at how confidant Maddy is in the life laid before her. It seems like the girl’s life, while one of labor, is filled with variety and prospects. Dorothea doesn’t think of her life as being one with choices, unless the opportunity of dying either by an evil Magister from the dawn of time or unstable Ehlven magic counts as _choices_.

As a Trevelyan, her life would have been a certain shape; when her magic manifested, the shape of the future changed, but it was just as irrevocable. Her life was decided long before her birth. Or, at least, it had been. She sips her coffee and stares out the window.

_So, what comes next?_

It is a thought that she has scarcely entertained before.

Her life in a Circle was prescribed: study, teaching, patrol rotations, delegate work between the Chantry and the State. Her life would have been lived inside: inside the Tower; inside the Circle; inside the Chantry.

Even joining the Inquisition hadn’t been much of a choice given the circumstances. The first decision that it felt she was making of her own choosing was to approach the mages, to originally come here to Redcliffe Castle and not to journey to Therinfal Redoubt.

Whether she would have ever asked for it or not, the Anchor has given her a freedom— _opportunities_ —to choose her own fate; these choices will be the death of her someday, but for this day . . .

After a few moments, she comes to a decision. She pours more coffee in her cup, wraps a blanket around her chemise—holding it with one hand and enveloping the anchor—, and crosses to the door. She walks across the plush rug in the high-ceilinged hall to the guest room door opposite.

The hall is shadowy; the light of dawn still hovers below the horizon. She knocks at what she knows to be Cullen’s door. She raps twice and then slides the door open and melts into the room.

Cullen stands with his back to the door, inspecting buckles on his armor on the stand. His breakfast tray sits on the desk by the door, untouched save for the cup that sits by his feet where he set it to free his hands.

“Jonas, I didn’t expect you so early,” he throws over his shoulder.

“No, not Jonas.”

Cullen whips around at her voice. His eyes widen, shock radiating off his face. He jerks into motion toward her and topples the cup on the floor. Coffee seeps across the hardwood.

Dorothea looks around the room and spies the wash basin with towels. “Stop,” she calls, holding up a hand, her blanket falling from her shoulders as she does. She crosses to the basin, picks up a towel, sets down her own cup, and crosses to Cullen. She feels his eyes track her the entire time, his face harsh in astonishment, and by the time she crosses to him Dorothea feels very self-conscious that she has come to him this way, unannounced, unexpected. She steps next to him and hands him the towel. As she looks up into his face she is struck by how near he is. It is not just that she is standing close to him; it is that without his armor his physical body presses into her consciousness, increasing her awareness of the man.

As she holds out the towel he reaches for her hands with his and pulls her more into his physical space, peering down into her face. She looks back into his. Her eyes are open wide, uncertain at what he looks for from her. Her breath stutters in her nose.

“Are you well?” he whispers into the dim morning. Her eyes focus on the tight set of his jaw, the probing dart of his eyes as he searches her face. It dawns on her that he isn’t angry, but worried.

“I’m fine.” She smiles softly at him. “Good morning,” and she squeezes his hands. Bare from their normal gloves, she can feel the firmness of the pads of his fingertips. She is aware of how his hands engulf hers, the palms and fingers folding deftly around her own. “Your hands,” she looks down at the space between them, “they’re ice cold.”

As if her words break a spell, he sways back a fraction of a step, releasing her and retaining the towel in his hands. He drops to a knee and sops up the spilt coffee. “Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t have spilt that.”

“Hand me the cup,” she says, trying to smile, but feeling slightly forlorn at the abrupt loss of him.

He picks up the cup and extends his arm up to her. As he does, his eyes take in her body. She stands close enough he could reach out his arm and wrap it around her; she holds her breath, willing him to do so. He doesn’t. But, as his face turns to make eye contact with hers, the move of his head is measured and she feels his gaze take in the linen shift that caresses her hips, billows softly from her breasts. The scooped neck is no more revealing than the dress she wore to dinner last night, but she knows the silhouette of her body is just visible with the light from behind her. His eyes finally meet hers and when they do she feels heat bloom off of her torso. The flush creeps into her chest and her cheeks. His lips gape open slightly and his eyes drop to her mouth as he holds the cup to her, the towel forgotten for the moment at his knee.

She swallows, “I’ll pour more,” takes the cup and with intentional care she turns away to his breakfast tray by the door. With as steady of hands as she can muster, she pours coffee from the carafe. She knows his eyes still watch her. She can feel the intensity of his gaze. She slows her breath, pulls her spine straight as she sets down the pot, and uses a focusing exercise she uses when she touches the Fade. Licking her lips she crosses to her own coffee cup and sees from the corner of her eye that he has risen, the floor cleaned up, and he moves to the vanity to lay the towel alongside of the wash basin. She hands him his cup as she takes her own up and smiles at him. She turns to gather up her blanket and moves to the fireplace and sits on the rug. The fire there looks slow to catch and as Cullen approaches her she holds up her hand, the Anchor quiet in her palm, and says, “May I?” her fingers arched in a traditional form of the Circle to indicate focus moving the Veil.

He nods and she sends a small trickle of fire into the largest log. The thin stream of heat is enough to tip the fire from a ghosting flame into an efficient blaze. Warmth pushes into the room and she hears Cullen sigh softly. He sits next to her on the rug. They each sip their coffee, looking into the flames. She feels his glance move over to her, studying her profile. She turns to face him.

His eyes are searching her features, as if trying to absorb her presence. She reaches out her left hand to lay on top of his. “Good, warmer all ready.” She starts to remove her hand, but he slides his fingers around hers and holds them wrapped in his. One of his fingers absently rubs along the not-scar that is the Anchor. Whether it is her body or the magic in the Anchor, it responds to his touch and it begins to shift. Dorothea flushes in consternation and looks down at her traitorous hand; she makes to move her hand away.

Cullen sits down his coffee cup, though, and takes her hand in both of his. He glances at her for permission and she nods her head in a brief dip of agreement. He gently holds the hand palm up and he touches the Anchor with slow strokes of his fingertips. He studies it with his eyes. She feels . . . something that pushes softly against her nerves, and then seeps away. When it does, the Anchor quiets. Looking satisfied, Cullen grunts softly in thought. He shifts his hands so that both of his thumbs sit in her palm. Then he begins to knead the firm, fleshy planes of her palm. She doesn’t manage to stifle a groan of pleasure.

“What,” Dorothea blinks, trying to clear her gaze at the pleasure of what Cullen is doing. She licks her lips, tries again: “What did you do?”

“A Templar exercise.” Her hand stiffens in his grasp and he looks up at her from his activity, “No, it’s fine. It’s something you first learn, long before the draughts. Many of our talents rely on the ability to sense the Veil. We build skills in,” he searches for a word, “firming it, like a mason that is making a wall plumb and square.” He shrugs slightly, “I simply firmed the Veil around the Anchor.”

“Like stitching up the edges of a tear in cloth, so it doesn’t grow?” she asks, understanding filtering in.

“Yes,” he says nodding at her. “I do not move the Veil; I simply define where it is.” He hesitates and looks down at her hand, “Or, I used to.”

“I think everything around you defines itself in relation to you,” she hears herself say. She thinks over the life of this man in front of her: survivor of Kinloch, pillar of Kirkwall, shield-arm of the Inquisition. She laughs lightly, “I don’t think there is anything that doesn’t become more defined and _actual_ in relation to you.” She blushes and looks down to stare at the hand he holds. His thumbs have stilled to lightly graze the skin, stroking down the outside of her hand. His eyes trace the path his thumbs take. He gently curls her fingertips up and then he leans forward and brushes a kiss along the curled back of her fingers, rubs the tip of his nose against her wrist. Her right hand moves of its own accord and her fingers lace into the hairs above his neck. He lifts his head, his eyes seeking hers and she presses his head toward her and meets his lips with her own as they slide together.

His lips are warm. He teases and plays them against hers, his hand suddenly present on her neck. Dorothea can only think of how to get his lips to deepen the kiss. Her tongue darts to rub against his lips, entreating entry. She whimpers slightly. He smiles against her lips and his hands move to her waist and back as he pulls her to him. The pressure of lips moves from soft, teasing strokes to firm, insistent laps with tongue and mouth. Not to be teased, Dorothea scoots to him, pushing into his lap as she holds his head to meet the mounting fervor.

A minute passes—or perhaps an hour—and they part to breathe, foreheads touching. Her hand still holds his head, his arms still wrapped around her back to keep her chest flush to his. Dorothea can feel the warmth of him through his linen shirt, the rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to control his hands and slow his breath. She knows he can equally feel her heat under her chemise and as his fingers absently stroke the waistband of her underthings through the fabric.

“Rift,” she says, with one word reminding them of who they need to be right now.

“Rift,” he answers with a breath, agreeing with one word to be that for today.

She breathes out, closes her eyes, and nods her head. With her eyes still closed, she puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes off to regain her feet. As she opens her eyes to pick-up her discarded blanket, she sees his hands flex open and closed, palms facing the ground. He fights with himself not to pull her back into his arms. Dorothea hesitates at the sight of it, opens her mouth to speak, and then thinks better of it. She turns to the door.

Her hand is on the doorknob when his voice carries to her, “Tomorrow, Us.”

He rumbles the words, as if he drags them forcibly up out of his belly. She turns to look where he still sits, eyes closed, body tense with fervor and desire.

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, and slides out of the door.

As she moves to her own door she realizes that someone stands in the hall near Cullen’s door. Before she can think, she throws a barrier over herself and stands poised to throw a bolt before she realizes the person is Jonas.

She doesn’t get a chance to ask what he is doing when Cullen’s door crashes open, his sword in his hand, adrenaline even higher than a moment before. His eyes quickly assess the hallway.

For Jonas’s part he looks terrified, but manages to master it to say, “Good Morning, Sers,” as if his two superior officers on this trip haven’t just faced him as if to kill him.

Dorothea finds her voice first: “What are you doing there, Jonas?”

Jonas licks his lips, looks sideways to the Commander and says, “I came with the Commander’s morning report, Ser. But the girl in the hall,” he gestures down to where Maddy sits, a terrified look on her face, “suggested I waited a bit until . . .”

At this point Jonas blushes crimson, stammers, and shifts his gaze to their feet. Cullen sighs heavily, sheathes his sword into the scabbard still in his hand and says, “It is fine, Jonas. The Inquisitor was simply confirming our plans for the day.” Cullen sweeps an arm to his room, “Come in, Jonas, and report. I need to put my armor on.”

Jonas ducks into the room and Cullen turns to her, his eyes glittering with energy and adrenaline. “I look forward to seeing you in battle, Inquisitor.”

“Yes,” she says. “I think we’re both ready for a good spar, Commander.”

As she turns to her room, she sees his lips twitch in a smile. Then he backs over the threshold, closes the door, and calls for a report.


	11. Chapter 11

They all reconvene outside in the yard where their mounts have been housed. The yard is surrounded by the lodgings the squad stayed in, so it is a bustle of activity and familiar faces breaking their fast in the breathtakingly beautiful morning air.

When she arrives Cullen is giving instructions to the Templars and squadron members that are heading into Redcliffe Village and the Crossroads to liaise with the Inquisition encampment. Originally, she and Cullen were to have spent today inspecting arrangements for the winter. But Cullen quickly decided to delegate that to Jonas and Malkiel and an attachment of Templars. Each group will verify the presence they will have for the winter in the Hinterlands.

The Templars they’ve gathered from the chaos that is Thedas have become a less than seamless part of the Inquisition. Their presence continues to chafe at Dorothea’s instincts, even while she recognizes they provide a valuable relief valve of protection for common people throughout the Inquisition’s territories. She reflects that it if wasn’t for the Commander’s presence it seems unlikely they would have managed together this long.

She moves to mount her horse, looking over at the attachment of soldiers accompanying them. In addition to herself and Cullen there are four soldiers, at least one of whom—Lt. Palfrey—was active in the Blight. There will be no Templars following them to the Rift. She had not had to ask that, the Commander had simply not put them in the impromptu party. It is considerate. This shouldn’t surprise her: Cullen shows consideration toward all of his forces, all of his soldiers. That he chose this for her comfort—not his own—is a humbling thought, particularly because he trusts her in the field.

“Are you ready, Inquisitor?” It is Cullen. While she has been musing he has approached her horse and speaks to her quietly. She knows he sees her pensiveness. But not being able to know the cause he allows her this moment to chafe, to reconsider their task without one of her trusted companions. He underestimates her faith in him; doesn’t realize she would walk into this with only his sword and shield and would do so joyfully.

“To see you fight? Oh, yes.” She smiles lusciously, her eyes warm and lidded. “Even a salon full of Josie’s little cakes couldn’t keep me from the field today, Commander.”

His color rises, pleasure evident in the dip of his eyelids and in the controlled chuckle in his chest. From a distance he will still look formal and formidable, but this close to him she can see the suck of his breath, a quickening of anticipation. He nods, squeezes her booted foot in the stirrup and says, “Then we are away.”

The ride there is uneventful. Old roads, now untended and untraveled, smooth their passage and they encounter occasional patches where cobbles still shine through vegetation, echoes of life from before the Blight still visible these many years later. She reaches out to touch the Veil, sensing its warp and woof here. Except for the Fallow Mire, she has rarely been this far South, this close to where the Blight poured out. She runs her tongue tip over her top, front teeth, worrying at them, lost in thought. “Inquisitor?” It is Cullen. He has pulled alongside of her, close, and he sits with an air of tension. Of course; he has felt her palpate the Veil. She shakes her head to dismiss his concerns.

“No, it is the Blight. The Veil is different. It is harshness and keening like Sacred Ashes, but not.” She closes her eyes, searches for the words. “It isn’t sharp, not pain, but weeping, sorrow, remembrance for what will never come again.”

Cullen listens to her intently, weighing her description. “I feel it like fine silt, with not enough clay to bind it together.” She looks at him and nods, acknowledging the similarity between them. “We are not far from the village—from where it used to stand—we should dismount, Inquisitor, and stretch to prepare.”

She nods and he calls a halt. They dismount and water skins come out. Dorothea stands—her hands clasped behind her back, feet shoulder-width apart—and she speaks: “Commander, we should brief on what to expect.”

Cullen nods his head and bows slightly, his hands on the pommel of his sword: “Certainly, Inquisitor. Shall I . . . ?” the question is open. Dorothea is the one present most familiar in fighting Rifts, but the Commander proved himself to be capable at the Temple and at Adamant: he knows what they will encounter. Dorothea gestures for him to continue.

“The rift, while unstable, is only aggressive in the presence of living beings. Each crack in the Veil will reveal more demons. The instability of the Veil means they are aggressive and will engage us on sight. The presence of the Anchor,” the Commander gestures to the Inquisitor and she removes her glove to fully display the Mark which lies muted, but winking, “will intensify the instability of the Veil and the ferocity of the Demons.” The Commander glances at her.

“The Anchor will call to the Rift,” she picks up the thread and all shift their eyes to her, “and it will tear open. As the strength of the demons which comes through wanes, the Rift will wane, too. They are connected. Slaying the demons allows me to begin to re-knit the Veil on the edges of the Rift. But it is a process and it will take multiple eruptions and closures to mend the Veil. If this is as new as the Scouts indicated, we may have no more than two or three bouts.”

The Commander nods, “Our job will be to slay as many as we can, but with the effort to engage and draw them off of the Inquisitor. Each time she has to divert her energy to combat she cannot focus the Anchor and we will be in the field longer if that happens.” He squats down and beings to draw in the dirt, indicating they should huddle around him. “We will advance to the center of the Rift, engaging as we go. On the first rupture we will be at a disadvantage as we will have to fight through their ranks. Typically, they come through in a sunburst pattern, centered on the Rift. Once we claim that position, we seek to engage from there providing the maximum cover to the Inquisitor. We do not leave the field until the Rift is closed and then we can pursue stragglers, if there are any. Questions?” He pauses for a moment, and then he stands, brushing his hands together. “We will tether the horses here and advance on foot. We do not want to risk them. Inquisitor,” he turns to Dorothea, “I believe our direction will lie there,” and he points to the south and west. “The village use to lie over the rise. Will you lead the party?”

“Certainly, Commander.” She starts off, slapping her hands together, and dry scrubs them. “Come along boys and girls: let’s go have some fun.”

Without a further look she moves to her own horse, securing the reins to a low branch. She sees the others have done the same with their mounts and without a further word she sets off. They tromp through the woods—the Rift is insensible to stealth when she’s around, so Dorothea is indifferent to tiptoeing—and the Commander catches up with her.

He whispers to her out of the side of his mouth, still looking forward, “Boys and girls?” She can hear the exasperated humor in his tone.

“Hey, one of us has to be the fun one,” she says lightly. “I don’t think it is you.”

“Fair enough,” but they stop talking as Dorothea pulls short. The Anchor has begun to undulate in her palm. She opens to the Veil, closing her eyes. She re-opens them to gesture –

“There.” And it is the Commander who speaks, pointing into the distance. He looks to her for confirmation and she nods. That he is aware of it from this distance surprises and intrigues her. But this is not the time for academic questions.

Cullen looks around at the party, “Be on your guard.” He looks to Dorothea. “Ready?” At her nod, he motions for them to form up on her with Cullen directly in front. He unhooks his shield and says curtly, “Advance.” They move at a trot and quickly the Rift bursts into life in front of them. Her hand flares and she grits her teeth. As the Rift spawns its first holes to the Fade, Dorothea calls, “Barrier!” and she envelops them in her cool, blue magic. She readies her staff, not yet pulling her arcane hilt until she sees what they are up against, leaving her hand free to call to and to control the Rift. She takes a moment to wish she had her fire staff and not her ice; a despair demon will give them a run for their money.

But then they are at them, she hears Cullen yell, “Engage!”, and she pushes fear from her mind. The first volley is an assortment of shades. Her staff serves her well as she throws ice into three of them before the warriors reach them to engage. She watches Cullen easily slice through one, disrupting part of its form as he turns to parry another seeking to flank him. Dorothea sends a branch of lightning through the first shade that finishes it off and then the lightning arcs away to the shade in combat with Lucien, a stocky, former mercenary from the Waking Sea. Dorothea sees the opening and calls to Lucien to shadow her. She advances toward the Rift. Looking about and seeing the action back and behind them, she lifts the Anchor and charges the Rift with energy. The Veil snaps as if someone twangs a guitar string and the remaining shades evaporate to the Fade. Cullen, Palfrey, and the other two soldiers join her and Lucien. Cullen eyes her critically, looking for injuries, and she radiates a smile in the face of his concern. With six of them, this is laughably easy. She feels the Anchor fizz and spark and she shouts joyfully, “Incoming!” and throws a barrier over the company.

He shoots her an exasperated look at her exuberance and turns. This time they are greeted with a sputtering of wraiths and a pair of Terror Demons. Her presence at the Rift—the presence of the Anchor—is calling to more powerful demons from the Fade. She sets her shoulders and moves past the warriors into a cluster of wraiths. Behind her she hears Cullen call for her, but she is confidant in the company and, as she draws her spectral blade she observes Lucien and Palfrey flanking her. As she lunges in, she calculates that leaves Cullen and the other two with two terrors. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Cullen fell the lesser of the two.

 _Perfect_.

“Here it comes!” she shouts to her companions. Palfrey dispatches his wraith with a Chevalier lunge and squats low. Dorothea does the same. As she does, she sees Cullen pivot to the remaining Greater Terror. The beast looks from the Commander to her.

“Come on, come on,” she whispers under her breath. She makes a split second decision and, rather than refresh the barrier on Cullen, she activates the Anchor and sends energy pulsing and pushing into the Rift.

The distraction pays off and the Greater Terror disappears and swoops above the ground to where she stands. Palfrey and Cullen shout almost as one: “To the Inquisitor!” But Dorothea could almost laugh at how easy this will be. Lucien has lost his footing when the Terror appeared next to them, but Dorothea has not. She lunges into an attack with her spectral blade to distract the demon from the prone Lucien. The Terror closes with her and—as she grins up at it, standing over Lucien as Palfrey, Cullen, and the others seek to close—she releases a Mind Blast. The Terror shrieks and falters. In that moment, Dorothea gets Lucien on his feet and shoves him toward the Rift. As she turns, Cullen’s shield connects with a flung finger from the Terror, saving Dorothea from being swiped. He glances at her, says through gritted teeth, “Get moving, Inquisitor.” She throws a barrier over the two of them, fuses in a thread of her esteem for him, watches it settle on his body as armor and his mind as a balm. She mouths a kiss into the air, grins, and retreats to the Rift where Lucien waits in a battle-ready stance. She moves adjacent to him, her back to the Terror a distance away with the other four warriors. She focuses on the Anchor, pouring energy into the Rift. On the other side she can hear chittering; from Lucien’s expression she knows he hears it, too.

 _Fear Demon_.

She focuses her Will, pushing into the Fade the image of Arlessa Kaitlyn, the care she continues to give a Blighted land to recover its faith, its strength: the formidability of her love, her belief, her hope for her home. As Dorothea lobs a final pulse of energy into the Rift she is rewarded with the feeling of . . . scurrying. She perches, ready as they all regroup, intrigued to see if her effort pays off.

The Rift stirs and sends energy out. Dorothea refreshes the barrier on them all and they stand poised, waiting to see what the Fade will send forth this time. When the Veil finally punctures and releases its burden, she could laugh with joy. Shades pierce through; one, two, three, four, five. She throws lightning into one in front of Lucien and the bolt arcs around the circle of them. The warriors advance on the shades and with short work they have dispatched the displaced spirits before she can rouse the Anchor to call to the Rift. With the final blade thrust the Fade energy between her hand and the Rift call to one another. As she pushes energy into the Rift, she hears mothers calling children for supper, husbands driving cattle to the field, old nannies clucking to babies: the sounds of absent peace.

The Rift slams shut and the tumult of it sends her down to one knee.

She feels a presence next to her, opens eyes she did not realize were squeezed shut and sees Cullen kneeling next to her. He has forced his breaths to slow, but she can see they are stertorous, filled with adrenaline-high shockiness.

“Are you injured?” he asks softly, but firmly, still steel-forged for battle.

She shakes her head no. “You?”

“A cut; we’ll tend it in a bit.” He searches her eyes, looking for something, a question hovers on his lips.

She smiles tremulously. “It’s better now, here. The Blight-wrongness feels . . .  better.”

He shifts his glance, tilting his head to the ground as if listening to a soundless tune. He nods slowly, once, twice: “Yes.” He looks in her eyes. “Firmer; it will hold.”

She smiles at his approval. “The others?” she asks as she pulls herself to stand by leaning on her staff.

The Commander calls out and they each answer with their name and account of injuries: a few cuts and a knee to poultice, nothing more.

Lucien is the last to answer and he is quiet when he does so. She approaches him: “Are you well, Lucien?” she asks quietly. The Commander notices her talking to him but she waves Cullen off and gestures for him to lead them back to the horses.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Lucien responds, but his jaw is held tight—too tightly—and his eyes are set hard.

“Have you fought alongside a battle mage before?” she asks as they walk.

“No, Señora,” he whispers, not looking at her.

“What we met was a Terror, a greater one; have you seen its like before?” A nod no. “It knocked you back with a psychic attack, an attack on your thoughts, yes?” A slow nod yes. “But it is also susceptible to psychic attacks and I sent out a Mind Blast. I tried to shield you, but you would have felt the effects of it there on the ground. Do you know the moment I mean?” She speaks to him as one would a nervous dog that does not know whether to lie down or rise up and fight. “I think it made you more susceptible to the Rift. You were more aware of the Veil. Tell me, Lucien, what did you sense beyond the Rift?”

Lucien licks his lips, his gait is stiff. Dorothea can see Cullen’s watchful glance as he has sent Palfrey into the lead. With the smallest of gestures, Dorothea motions Cullen to approach around to her side. He does and is close enough to hear Lucien as he begins.

“I could hear hornets,” Lucien rasps the sound out of his mouth, the thought wrenching out of him. “I’ve always been afraid of them and I thought they would pour out at any moment. My papa, he died from a hornet’s nest, hundreds of them with their poison and their pain.” Lucien swallows thickly. “I was the man of the house then.”

“How old were you, Lucien?” Dorothea asks quietly, but so Cullen can hear.

“I was 9.”

Dorothea nods her head and they walk in silence for a few steps. “Lucien, it was not hornets. There was a Fear Demon on the other side and it was echoing back to you your own vulnerability. You will be more sensitive to attacks like this now. But you can prepare against them.”

“Can you teach me?” Lucien’s voice is small and he stops short, his gaze pitiful in Dorothea’s vision.

“No, it is different for mages because of our relationship to the Fade. But Templars have worked on these skills for centuries,” she holds out a hand to the Commander to draw him level with her, “and the Commander can talk you through a few exercises.”

A look of fear crosses Lucien’s face. “I don’t want the Lyrium, begging your pardon, Commander.” Lucien blushes and stammers, looks at his feet and shifts his weight. “But we hear things in the barracks. They say Ser Honoré last month . . . he had to go to stay with the healers.” A look of misery is on Lucien’s face.

“What I have to teach you,” the Commander says calmly, “does not require Lyrium. They are focus techniques, much like when you learned your sword. They are learned by every Templar long before they ever see a draught. I’ve performed them on and off of Lyrium; they are no less effective.”

Lucien nods and Dorothea advances toward the others and the horses, leaving the two warriors. She helps to unpack medical supplies from saddle bags and begins to administer basic healing and poultices while Palfrey sets camp for lunch. After about a half hour lunch is ready, wounds set, and Cullen leads Lucien back to the camp. The tension that had been riding in the young soldier is no longer present and he gives a tentative smile to Dorothea as he goes to wash up and join the others.

Dorothea picks up her healer’s poultice kit and heads to the Commander. His jaw is set tightly as he glances at her. He looks at the supplies in her hands and nods his head briskly. Dorothea leads him to under some trees where the shade will be welcome from the sun that rolls into its afternoon strength. He sits on the ground and begins to remove his armor, first his pauldron, then rerebrace, and vambrace from his left arm and then his right. He then loosens the hasps of the fastenings on the breastplate and gorget. Dorothea helps him to pull it over his head so he doesn’t stretch his left arm and break the clots that have closed over the cut. As she pulls it up, on her knees in front of him, he looks her in the eye as it comes up over his head.

“You did not follow the battle plan,” he says quietly.

“I know.” She puts the plate aside, moves to the basin of water she has next to her supplies, dips and wrings out a cloth that she hands to him. “For your face, you’ll feel better.”

“I would feel better if you had not plunged into danger without regard,” he says lowly, removing his arm from his shirt and passing the cloth over his face.

“I knew what I needed to do to meet our goal,” she says, beginning to inspect the cut. She knew this challenge was likely; she will not rise to his ire. “I suggest you accept that and move on from it. It is done and was done well.” Her tone holds no rancor; it is simply the truth that she speaks. She is preoccupied looking at this arm. The slice appears clean and it clotted well.

Cullen settles back, his back against the trunk of the tree which stretches overhead and he says no more on the topic. Dorothea tugs her lip between her teeth. The cut is very wide, and would threaten to re-open if it is not closed shut. Her healing magic is a small, almost negligible, thing that is about well-suited to get rid of a headache. She will have to stitch it.

“What is it?” he asks, seeing her pensive look. She jolts to the present.

“Nothing. It is a smooth cut. It looks clean and should be easy to deal with. I don’t sense any poison or lingering malignancy. I will need to stitch it to make sure you don’t re-open it in the next few days.”

She pauses.

He thinks she is finished speaking, believes she is looking for his agreement, says: “Well, then do so.”

She takes a half breath, holds it, and then continues. “I’m not good at this. It will hurt.”

His face softens, an almost smile ghosting his lips, and he relaxes, “I think I can manage.”

Dorothea smiles and gathers her thoughts for her next words. “Of course. I’ve done this before for Bull, Varric . . .” she trails off, thinks ‘Blackwall’, omits it, “and I always use a bit of healing afterwards to soften the ache.” Maker, she is uncomfortable talking to him about her magic. She speeds on: “And it will help to ensure against infection and keep it from getting tight as it heals, you’ll just be Maker-all hungry after.” She dwindles to silence, cheeks flushing. She knows she sounds like an Apprentice, first in her robes, begging for someone to practice on, and nothing like the woman who can order this man to move armies.

“Of course I will be.” She looks at him confused by his words. “After.” She still doesn’t understand, and her confusion writes large on her face. “I mean, I know I will be hungry after. I have been magically healed before, Inquisitor,” he says softly.

“Oh.” It is all she can say for she feels like an idiot. The man has been in the Order for 20 years; of course he has been Healed. “Well, then. I’ll work better if you’re quite still, lean into the trunk and rest your arm on your leg.”

He grunts his assent and leans back his head. He bends his left knee to rest his arm upon it, putting his bicep within easy sight of Dorothea. He closes his eyes. Dorothea douses her needle and thread and his skin in the strong spirit they use as field disinfectant and begins her stitching. She is grateful he has the sense not to talk while she works. Once or twice she senses him shift his head toward his left arm, feels his eyes on her as she works. It is the only sign he gives that she is stabbing into his skin with a needle. He neither moves nor winces.

She finishes finally. The stitches are small, neat, and well-spaced. It is the most care she has ever taken with such a thing and she is grateful to her grandmother at that moment for the old woman’s insistence that she learn to embroider.

She hesitates then. Her tools are put away. There is nothing left to do but provide what little Healing she can.

He lifts his head, glances over at his arm, and then shifts his eyes to Dorothea. He meets her gaze with a soft intensity and holds it. Dorothea nods her head and places her hands on his arm on either side of the wound. She invites in the Fade, finding the warmth of brewed tea and mint salve on a fresh muscle ache. Cullen moans slightly, releasing a breath from deep in his chest and then he breathes in deeply through his nose, his head swaying back and his eyes drooping. He moves his right hand, his sword hand, to the hand with the Anchor on his arm. “Thank you.” He doesn’t move and Dorothea shrugs in genuine pleasure. “Before, with the Terror . . .” he hesitates, looking for words.

“I know you don’t approve, rushing in, calling it out—” she tries to intercept him, but he grips her hand more solidly so she can’t run away from him.

“No, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it was the wrong tactic,” he smiles. “That wasn’t what I wanted to ask, though. The barrier you put on both of us: it felt different, different even then the others you used on the field today. What was it?”

“It was attuned to you.”

“I’ve never felt something like that before. What does that mean?”

She takes a breath. “Solas taught me it. If I know my focus, if I have feelings or impressions of him, emotional memories?” she checks to see if he follows her thought progression. He does: “I summon that connection and bolster his Spirit. It provides some psychic resistance, but mainly it will dissolve uncertainty.”

“It clarifies,” he states. She nods affirmation. “How do you do it?”

“I call to the mind the way I see my Focus—my esteem—and I give it to him.”

Cullen reaches his hand up and cups her jaw, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. “You are the most singular woman, Dorothea Trevelyan. You make my breath still in my chest when I watch you move on the battlefield, when I see you strum a tune, when I see you laugh. You are grace,” and with that Cullen tips her head slightly and pulls her mouth to his. He demands with his lips and his tongue, his fervor charged from the battle lust of only an hour before.

She leans into his kisses, relishing in the feeling of him dipping into her, luxuriating in the comfort that he wants this from her. Her right hand sneaks down to his side and she languorously strokes the planes of his torso. His skin is warm; his pectoral muscles are supple at rest with the promise of power and strength. She skirts her fingernails down to his belly and the kisses change. She feels him slow and begin to drink in more deeply from her. Dorothea licks back at his tongue and she feels her reward in his smile pressed across her mouth.

But it ends.

One of the horses whickers and Hedda cries out. Cullen breaks from her lips to look past her, but does not remove his hand from Dorothea’s jaw.

“You distract me, Trevelyan,” he says huskily.

“Mmmm?” Dorothea hums, biting at her lips, feeling their swollenness from his kisses. “Tell me how and I’ll do it again, Commander,” she teases, lapsing into his title.

He notices and laughs. “If you hadn’t gotten my shirt mostly off, been so kind to Lucien, astounded me with the simple wonderfulness that is you, I would have had quite a lecture planned about following a battle plan and sticking to the rules of engagement.”

She opens her eyes wide and beams at him, “And now?”

“Now? We’ve used up all of our time under this tree and everyone else is getting restless and we should be on our way. Even though right _now_ I find I want to do nothing more than pull you up against me and sit here under this tree for the rest of the afternoon.” He looks at her almost wistfully and Dorothea is overtaken by his earnest gaze.

“So,” she says, regrounding herself and smiling charmingly: “no lecture?”


	12. Chapter 12

By the time the Arlessa has kissed and bid the Inquisitor farewell, the sun already peeks above the tops of the treetops. It is later than he would like, and the temptation to frown in consternation is nearly overwhelming.

Cullen scolds himself. That would be the thought of the Inquisition’s Commander, not a man from Redcliffe, from Honnleath, just wanting to, to . . .

_Take a girl to see his home?_

Well, no; not that. He rubs his open hand over a cheek that is already beginning to stubble. He doesn’t have a home now. Mia would doff him on the shoulder if she heard him say that, but Honnleath is gone, South Reach was never his home, and the Order . . . . He breathes heavily through his nose. The Order was not what he had thought it was.

He was not at the Grand Cathedral long enough to truly settle and the few odds and ends he brought from Kirkwall to Haven are long lost now, even that damn lion’s helm. He chuckles now to think of it, and the memory of Justinia is joyful. The Divine would have approved of the Inquisitor, although he is not sure they would have exactly gotten along.

They leave Redcliffe with he and Dorothea riding slightly behind the rear with Jonas at his side. When they reach the Crossroads thirty minutes outside of the village, he dismounts and follows Jonas, detailing final instructions as Dorothea looks at a merchant’s wares. It is their first hold point after the explosion, where the Revered Mother Giselle herself came to, so Cullen does not think to watch for Dorothea here. A few local soldiers from the Inquisition encampment fall into rank behind the Inquisitor.

Cullen signs the final note to be sent to Arl Bryland to meet them in six days’ time. He and Jonas agree on the camp they will meet at tonight when Dorothea and he catch up to the rest of the party.

“It looks to threaten rain, Commander,” Jonas says, “from the East.”

“It should hold until dusk. But if it doesn’t, we’ll travel through here,” Cullen indicates on the map a course through several villages. “There should be roads that will give us swift passage. We will beat the storm to you.” Cullen hands the rest of the supply orders to Jonas. “Ensure Ser Abelard gets enough time with the Templar encampment outside Valammar. I do not want to rotate them during the winter and those rolls need to be set before First Frost.”

“Yes, Commander,” Jonas makes a note as Cullen hands Jonas a raven scroll.

“Write to your sister. Let her know when we will be meeting Arl Bryland. See if she can spare a few days at Harvest time; she would be the guest of the Inquisition.”

Jonas looks up in open surprise, “Ye-Yes, Ser.”

Cullen smiles, “She will be only a two day ride, Jonas. You would never hear the end of it if you don’t tell her you will be that close.” The young man’s tentative grin of pleasure as he takes the paper fills Cullen’s own sense of home.

As there is nothing else, Cullen bids Jonas farewell and steps into the sunlight. The cabin Jonas and he have been in was requisitioned early on by the Inquisition. The former inhabitants here at the Crossroads were prosperous merchants who retreated to Amaranthine in the north. From the front gate it is possible to see all of the roads converge. At the center of it all is a swarm of people surrounding an ash-gray shock of hair. Cullen doesn’t have to see what is in her hands to know that her arms are filled with trinkets and charms, gifts and offerings from these folk to the Herald of Andraste. The title of “Inquisitor” sits stilted on the tongues of these people. She is the Herald, a Mage blessed by the Maker who saved them all from the crazed Templars and secured the Rebel Mages and gave the mages a home far away from them. Banditry is down and the Lyrium smuggling has become regular again and less chaotic. It matters little to many of these people that Corypheus still looms large and Red Lyrium threatens all markers of sanity their Chantry has ever known: people here have begun to re-build and the Breach no longer looms in their vision. Dorothea is the bringer of this stability for them.

He turns to walk toward the crowd and his armor catches the light. One of the soldiers around Dorothea notices and gestures for the Inquisitor, who is bent over listening to a small figure in front of her, that Cullen waits for her. She straightens and looks for him, smiling when she sees him. He gestures with a cocked thumb that they can take their leave and she nods in return. She turns to speak to all in front of her, raising her voice to carry to the back of the milling crowd.

“It is with great pleasure that I see all of your faces today. As we continue the work of the Inquisition to restore order back to our homes and to our lands, it bolsters my own sense of Faith knowing each of you are out here keeping your families safe,” she looks to the soldiers behind her, “supporting your men and women who are in service,” she looks to the civilians and merchants gathered to one side of the crowd. “You, friends, are the solidity of Thedas, you are the blessings of the Bride. May the Maker shelter you and make you whole.”

With that, a tremendous shout goes up from the soldiers behind her. Jonas comes up behind him:

“I had your horses brought down there. This might be the best chance to get her away, Commander. According to Corporal Vale, the crowd here can be a bit excitable and they’re likely to keep her going for a while.”

Her eyes light with a fire of joy he sees from here. She moves through the crowd, hugging, clasping hands, and saluting. They love her. She is their herald of peace; their scion of hope. In the face of their admiration, his seems all the clearer. Doubts have ridden in his mind since they left Skyhold—since before—and in the clear sun of the morning they scuttle back to the dark. He knows beyond a doubt that he admires Dorothea, that he desires her: her laugh, her quick glances of joy, her regard, her lips pulling against his, her hands laced with his.

“Ser?”

Cullen has continued standing there, lost to his realizations. He glances around to Jonas’s look of question, nods his appreciation at the man, and turns to their horses. Vale has pulled the Inquisitor toward the horses, too, and they—and the crowd—approach as he gains the saddle. She catapults onto Hedda, all grace and long legs, beams at Cullen, and turns back to wave a farewell to those in the Crossroads. They head to the cave through the mountainside and come out by the abandoned keep near the Witchwood. He hasn’t seen the Watchtowers for a while and appreciates the one he can spy on the ridge. Jonas verified these yesterday while they saw to the Rift, but it is good to see them standing.

Mistaking his stare, Dorothea speaks: “I think we destroyed it all, but we could send someone to check.” He realizes she speaks to the Red Lyrium they found in the abandoned keep they pass by.

“No, I believe it’s fine. I was actually admiring your handiwork with the watchtowers.”

“Oh,” Dorothea blushes, “they weren’t my choice, but Dennet’s man, Bron. I wouldn’t have known the first thing about building defenses,” she laughs. “I thought the bears would kill me, first.”

“What?” he laughs, the feeling of delight rolling out of him. “Bears?”

“Yes! Bears. You get them here, you know? Oh, further south,”—and she gestures away—“but large things. Of course, Ferelden bears are not nearly as nasty as Emerald Graves bears. Those are mean.”

Cullen chuckles and tries to look affronted, “You can hardly expect me to countenance your slight on Ferelden wildlife, Inquisitor,” he teases.

“Just because you managed to slay one to wrap up in on the ramparts doesn’t mean all of us have such luck. You know lightning cages just _pfffft_ , right off of them, right? Last time we were in the Graves, I never wished for Varric and Cassandra so hard in my life. Any amount of them fighting with each other is worth coming home alive.”

She begins a story of meeting a bear in the south, near Grand Forest Villa in the early days with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. As they clear past the next watchtower and turn away from the Redcliffe farms toward the edge of the arling, Dorothea winds her tale.

“ . . . so, all of a sudden, I wake up, convinced it’s the damn Seeker snoring. I shout out her name—‘Cassandra, shut up!’—only to hear her call from leagues away: ‘Herald!’” Dorothea is giggling. “I poke my head out and there, in the moonlight, is a huge bear practically _glowing_ with Rift magic. I screamed three kinds of bloody murder, threw all the lightning I could into it, and scrambled up the mountainside. I spent the rest of the battle assisting the other three—who had already killed two bears while I’d been asleep—from the tree top, shooting down lightning,” she mimics throwing lightning bolts with her hands and deepens her voice, “like the Maker, himself.”

Cullen roars with laughter: “That was what happened? Cassandra’s report simply said, ‘encountered and killed five bears.’ She left all of that out!”

“Well, of course she did!” Dorothea responds, smiling, “Not exactly the most inspiring moment of the Herald of Andraste.”

They each continue to laugh to themselves, listening to the birds in the trees as they press on. It is coming to afternoon, but they aren’t far from their destination.

The road continues on. He had travelled these cobbles and hard planes of dirt often as a boy, moving back and forth to Redcliffe from their village, from Honnleath. For all the changes the Blight brought—there are parts of the countryside around Calenhad that are near incomprehensible in how different they look—there are then familiar places like this road.

They come to a break in the trees as the road disappears around a twist of the hill. He gestures off to the wood with an arm. “This way,” he says, pointing away from the road.

Dorothea looks after where he points and turns her horse to face him, “We’re to go traipsing off into the dark, secluded woods? You should blush, Commander.” Her tone is innocuous, but the grin she bites back belies the teasing she gives him.

“I—” he falters and his cheeks heat briefly. “Maker’s Breath,” he blows out his own in consternation and her peal of laughter rings out, her delight at riling him bounces off the tree line and fills the empty places in his chest that ache. “The road travels on to Honnleath,” he says, “what was Honnleath.”

“One of the villages lost in the Blight?” she stares off and away, down the path, a distant look on her face.

He is startled: “Yes; how did you know?”

“I was in the Circle. We studied the Blight. It was what you did,” she shrugs, “and when we first came to the Hinterlands, Leliana briefed me on the villages lost in the Blight around the Crossroads. It seemed like knowledge that would be useful at the time. Honnleath was a name I remembered; so much nicer sounding than ‘Lothering’,” she emphasizes the “O”. She turns her head to him, breaking her own reverie. “Did you know Leliana was in the Chantry there, in Lothering, before the Blight took it? It’s where she met the Hero.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I did not.” That he didn’t know shouldn’t surprise him, but it still irritates a bit. After the Conclave they had found an informal friendship together in Haven, a space they could work side by side in easily. Cassandra had been so often in the field with the Herald and it had been just the two of them who carried together the burden of Justinia, of her love and of her devotion. But Redcliffe splintered them: he sided with Cassandra. He knew Leliana had been disappointed in both of them; he suspected the Divine would have been, also.

“Was it as nice as it sounds?”

He startles at her question, turns to look at her, and finds her watching him. His look of confusion at what she’s asking prompts her:

“Honnleath?”

He moves his horse toward the tree line and they begin to walk between the woods. “It was a good place for a boy.” He pauses. He had never gone this way on horseback and the trees are low branched. “Shall we dismount and lead them? It isn’t far.”

“Maker, yes; it would be terribly embarrassing for the Inquisition’s Commander to be unhorsed.” He eyes her skeptically and is rewarded with another trill of her laughter and something unfurls further in his chest. They begin to walk slowly, weaving in and around trees, each leading their mount. They dip apart and back together as they pick their way through, threading their conversation around the trunks like the weave of a loom.

“It had been prosperous, once, when the Deep Roads were still open, perhaps the Exalted Age? The Chantry was large.”

“Is it still there?” she asks, “The Chantry?”

He takes a breath, then answers: “I am unsure, but I think not. It had a statue of Andraste from the time of Calenhad. The statue is in the Grand Cathedral now, so I don’t believe the Chantry stands.”

She chuckles low, a sound that sings in his head. “You are quite the Chantry boy if you keep track of statues and triptychs. With talent like that, I am surprised the Chancellor let you out of his sight.”

He laughs at the absurd idea, “No, not quite. I hardly thought about the Bride in Kinloch or in Kirkwall. She’s part of your kit, of course—”

“Your Lyrium kit?” she sounds horrified.

“Yes, the Bride’s image is embossed on it.” He thinks of his own, the hinge severed.

“Shit. That is the most ridiculous mind job.”

“I did not think about it—” she shrugs at his comment, nods for him to continue, “—Then I met the Divine and she told me of the statue in the Grand Cathedral. I never asked, but she must have known. She knew it was from another lifetime, a part of me I put aside, I suppose.” He knits his brow in thought. So many times he’s re-settled his life, found direction, tried to make something new when everything became broken.

“So, three?” She interrupts his thoughts.

“Three . . . ?” he asks.

“For you. Three lifetimes: Before the Order; the Order; and Now.” As she says it, she punctuates the statements, first holding out one hand in front of her, palm up, then the next in the same gesture with the other hand, and then she emphasizes the _Now_ with a soft clap of her hands.

“Yes,” he responds, mouth gone dry with astonishment at how she has echoed and turned his own thought: “and now.” The clap of her hands resonates in his mind. The now is why he brought her here, to shape the now.

She has stopped and looks up at him. “For me, too: Before the Circle; the Circle,” she swallows, “and now,” she says carefully, her voice level and neutral.

He looks at her and nods. “We should continue on.” They break through a final layer of trees and they are there. It is smaller than he remembered, but he supposes that should not be a surprise. Whether it be the Blighted-land or him, much has changed. He takes Hedda’s reins from Dorothea and secures the horses on a long lead so they can reach the water and the grassier banks. The shape of the bank is slightly different—a lingering effect of the Blight, undoubtedly—but he is gratified to see a dock is still there. As he leads Dorothea to the piers jutting out he sees fresher boards intermingled with more weathered planks. The idea that someone still comes here to fish, to listen to the wind, to feel the quiet of the Maker all around them brings him more comfort than he imagined it could.

“Where are we?” she asks, looking around.

“You walk into danger every day. I wanted to take you away from that, if only for a moment.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

The threat of rain with no shelter in sight is the only thing that could convince Dorothea to leave the lake. The feeling of Cullen’s arms around her, pulling her into him, anchoring her into the moment with him, caressing her back as he draws her into kisses: a shift happens. This is no longer a few moments stolen outside the Council room, in his office, or over a late drink at last call. This feels . . .  she sighs in her mind. That was it, this _feels_ like so many things, like a chance, like a hope.

The terror of that nebulous thought pulls her into herself, leaves her faltering and pulling back to look at him in the clouded light of the afternoon. He stills then, his hand cupping her head, his thumb stroking her cheek. He sighs and turns, goes to get their saddle bags, pulls out the wrapped paper packs of bread, cheese, meat from the castle kitchens. They sit quietly, side by side, watching the fish kiss the surface of the water. They speak of little things, Redcliffe’s docks, the look of the winter wheat crops they’ve passed, the quality of the wine at the Arlessa’s table. They speak of safe things, things that will make no difference in five minutes or five years.

They begin their ride in silence and carry on that way for a time. Eventually one of them remarks on a shift in the landscape. The wind stills, but it still gusts occasionally and she can smell the tinge of sulfur in the air to the east, to where they ride.

She looks down into her left hand. The coin Cullen gave her rests in the middle of the mark, the green an odd halo around the image of the Bride. She shakes her head. What is he offering her? Is Cullen Rutherford capable of putting aside all she has been before, of finding joy with her as she tries to be now? Or is she just another way for him to fulfill his duty, to atone?

A fat raindrop falls into her hand and she startles and looks up to see Cullen watching her cradling the coin. Involuntarily her fingers contract around it and the green cast of the Anchor cuts off. His eyes seek hers and in that moment his face is open and vulnerable. There is duty there, yes, but there is also devotion and something else, a current of want. The wind scoops up from the ground and pours into them. The new air it brings is super-chilled as if it comes from a mage’s blizzard. As the wind opens its throat to roar into the treetops, thunder pours out of the storm clouds: the storm clouds they are headed directly towards.

Cullen looks to the east and then turns to face her, his mount prancing, “We should move, Inquisitor,” and then he looks at her, a smile and a challenge in his eyes.

She beams back at him and before he can turn she kicks Hedda into action on the old road. She can feel the lightning streaking through the clouds and her being thrums in sympathy as the storm above them rolls and rocks, tugging forth its momentum, biding its time until it can cascade to the ground. She lifts her face, laughing, as Cullen overtakes her and then slows to a trot.

She catches him up, breathing heavily from the pleasure of the burst of the run. Without further rumbles of thunder, sheets of rain start to pour down. They have reached the fringe of the darkest clouds. She pulls her hood of her cloak up around her face and raises her voice to Cullen to be heard over the rain: “Are we much further out?”

He growls back, “At least an hour in good weather, but in this? Maker only knows.” And he looks to the east with a scowl.

“Shall we keep moving?” She prompts and they turn their horses back to the road, giving the animals their head to allow them to find their footing in the softening ground.

The wet continues to push in. In her waxed canvas cape and hood, she is doing well; but her leather breeches are sodden. Cullen is a sight. His greatcoat seems to wick the water away from his back well, the fur’s natural resistance to the wet helping. But she can see the rivulets of water that are coursing down his neck and under his armor. Rain streams down his head, pulling the curls of his hair down and forward. His gloved hands make it awkward for him to move the sodden hair off his brow, so from time to time he shakes his head to the side to shift the fringe from dripping down to his eyes. Dorothea cannot contain her giggle and calls to him, “You look like a fierce Mabari.” His look at her starts as a scowl, but in the face of her joy he gives over and smiles wryly.

They continue on, an early dusk approaching with the clouds. The rain rolls on and begins to drive as the wind re-engages and pushes it under shirts, down boots, and into faces.

“Look there!”

She snaps her attention to where Cullen points. She can just make out a structure in the distance, tall and dark in the grey.

“What is it?”

“A barn, I think. We lost the road a while back, so we must have skirted the village. Come on,” and he kicks his horse into a quicker trot, making for the building.

Calling it a barn seems hardly appropriate. As they approach, the building looms over them, the apex of the roof easily 60 feet off the ground. The bottom third is field stone and mortar and timbers stand tall above to the roof. As she approaches she sees Cullen has already dismounted. He looks at the door, then hands Dorothea the leads for his mount. “I’m going to walk the exterior,” he says and then disappears into the gloom.

The barn provides a break from some of the wind and the overhanging roof far above her provides a minimal amount of shelter from the rain. She closes her eyes and opens herself to the Veil. It is firm here and she cannot sense anything around her. She lets go of her focus, opens her eyes, and puffs out a breath into her hands, seeking to warm her fingers.

She begins to wonder where Cullen has gone after a while. The barn is large, but it shouldn’t have taken this long to walk around. She looks back to the door behind her, sees the hasp and lock that secures it shut.

The rush of rain is so loud she has no warning when he does approach. He reappears out of the gloom coming not from around the building, but straight from in front of her.

“There are no houses immediately nearby. We are in the fields around a village, maybe two by the size of the barn. The only way in is behind you.”

“And it is locked,” she says wearily, wishing Varric was here to wave the door open.

“Yes. How do you feel about a little larceny in the name of the Inquisition?” he smiles at her, squinting from the rain streaming into his eyes.

“Does it mean being in the dry?” she grins back. He approaches the door and loosens his shield. For a moment she worries he will try to take down the door, but then she sees him set the shield’s edge against the lock and then bring it sharply down. On the third thrust, she can tell from the way his body shifts that the lock gives way. With a sigh of relief she dismounts and leads Hedda through the door. It is a tight fit through this human-sized door nestled inside the barn’s larger ones, but she manages to get the mare in.

Seeing them disappear through, Cullen’s charger follows out of curiosity and then, undoubtedly driven by the smell of hay, he comes in with little prompting from Cullen. There are empty stalls and Dorothea leads the animals to them while Cullen secures the door and then ascends to the loft above. She can hear him walk the perimeter as she does the same below. She finds two lanterns and wills a small spark of fire to ignite the wicks.

The barn, while obviously still in use, is eerily empty. Various tacks hang on the walls for using with a team to cultivate the fields. There is every sign that a team of six is used at sowing time, but there are no animals in the large barn. The huge, central open places of the floor look recently swept, and she can see fresh mortar tucking still trying to dry in the humidity of the storms. She turns to their horses and, as she lifts the saddle off of Hedda, her eyes drag up to the timbers above her forming the floor of the loft. The timbers look freshly charred and tarred in sections, evidence of recent repairs and construction. As her gaze comes back down, she meets Cullen’s eyes as he crosses to the stalls. He enters his charger’s stable and begins to loosen the buckles on the saddle. She flashes him a smile and can’t resist teasing him: “I would never have thought you’d be so good at breaking and entering, Commander. Where did you learn such things?”

At the flash of guilt and the rigidity that settles in to his expression, it clicks: “You learned it in Templar training, didn’t you?” She means the question to be gentle, but she can hear the sharpness in her tone.

He doesn’t breathe, simply answers: “Yes, for recovery, we were taught various tactics to open locks.”

Then there it is, in front of them: he has been a mage hunter.

“I should hate you,” she says softly, almost unaware the words are leaving her lips.

“I know.” He says it simply, the chest-high stall between them. “Do you?”

She holds his gaze for a moment, her expression weary but curious. Eventually she nods no. Cullen breathes in a deep breath through his nostrils. Dorothea turns away back to Hedda and begins to rub down the mare.

She hears rather than sees Cullen do the same. She lingers over her curry comb longer than necessary, trying to sort her thoughts into something manageable. She is aware in the distance that he has found an iron stove and fuel. When she sees him feeding the stove it clicks: this is a barn not for storing animals, but for wintering fodder. The animals, being much too precious for these people’s livelihoods, will be housed closer to their homes. She finishes with Hedda, checks that the mare and the charger have plenty of grain, and picks up a bucket. “I saw a trough outside, I’ll go get a dip of water,” she calls, and then ducks out to the storm before he can object.

She runs into the punishing rain. It is no longer vertical and the wind is becoming part of the storm; she has forgotten her cloak in her haste. Returning to get it will make no difference; she is sodden, so she fills the bucket. She moves back to the door to see Cullen standing there, illuminated by the lantern light behind him.

He takes the bucket from her when he meets her at the door and says, “Can you stand to get another?” She nods her head and he hands her an empty one. She repeats the trip and returns back inside. He meets her again and takes the bucket from her. For the first time she absorbs that he has discarded his plate and armor and stands in his sodden gambeson and leather breaches.

“Go by the stove, I’ll water the horses,” and he walks off with both buckets toward the stalls.

Dorothea goes to the stove which is only just beginning to catch as the kindling warms. She can smell the earthy scent of well-matured and dry cow manure, straw, and the scent of dry pine. Carefully she tries to peel out of her leather coat. She finally manages to get it down her arms after much struggling. She drapes it over several bales of straw, mimicking Cullen’s own action with his plate so they can begin to dry.  Under it her vest and shirt are not too bad; the cloak took the worst of it. But her boots and leather pants are another thing entirely. She sees Cullen drop their saddlebags and other things from the horses by the stove. He stokes the fire, blowing in to brighten the coals, and then drops in a few small chunks of hard oak to begin to build coals that will sustain into the night.

She sits down to begin unlacing her boots and watches out of the corner of her eye as Cullen pulls off his gambeson. His linen undershirt is soaked, too, and the thin material clings. He pulls it off over his head. Looking about, he drags another bale of straw nearer to the stove and lays out his things close to the fire to encourage them to dry. He moves to his own saddle bag and removes from it a fresh linen shirt.

The fact that he does all of this shirtless, his chest luminescent in the lantern glow, does not seem to enter his consciousness.

It fills Dorothea’s.

She can focus on nothing else. His shoulders are powerful and heavy with layers of dense muscle that pull effortlessly taut as he moves the straw. His abdomen is lean and sleek. He lacks the definition that would be apparent in a foot soldier who runs hours of drills every day. Instead, his physique is that of someone who practices with his tools enough to meet the challenge of maintaining his skills, but must divide his activities in a tightly controlled timetable. The work of the shield and sword have created a pleasing juxtaposition between his shoulders and his waist. She can see from the fit of his trousers that he has lost weight in his waist, although his thighs still powerfully fill out his leathers. The last week in the saddle has toned muscle that softened behind a desk.

He pulls the fresh shirt on over his head, quietly oblivious to her hungry eyes until he gets ready to pull the linen over his head. With the material gathered in his hands, his arms in the sleeves, he looks her in the eye and winks. Dorothea flushes to be caught staring, but she doesn’t look away. Once his shirt is on she waves a foot in the air at him: “If you help with mine, I’ll help with yours.” He grins and moves to her. He kneels in front of her on one knee and places a hand under the boot’s heel and with the other he cups the underside of her knee. He gently and firmly pulls them apart and she feels the release of the calf-high leather as it separates from the contours of her body. She sighs as he repeats the motion with the other foot and then shivers as he feels the leather on her knees.

“Do you have anything on under those?” She startles at the question from him and then realizes he asks if she wears leggings under her leather trousers. She shakes her head no. He nods, “You need to get out of those before we have to cut you out of them. Your saddle blanket is quite dry, so you’ll be able to wrap in that.”

She stands obediently and begins to try to tug them off, but she can’t get purchase on the wet, tight leather from this angle. She huffs a breath and then hears him say: “May I help?”

She breathes: “Of course.”

He hands the blanket to her and drops to his knees before her. He coaxes the leather to roll down her thighs. She feels the warm puffs of his breath graze above her knees and for the briefest moment she thinks he will kiss the dimple of her knee.

But then he shifts, finishes rolling her leathers down her legs to pool at her feet. She steps out of them and he moves away to lay them to dry by his own vestments. He sits then and removes his own boots. His trousers he leaves on, however. Dorothea clears her throat and gestures at him, “What about you?”

“Ah,” he looks around. “I’ll be fine.”

She snorts at his modesty, thrusts her blanket at him. With her arm extended the hem of her shirt rides just above the top of her thighs and he hesitates. He stares at her until she laughs and throws it at his head. “I have cloth leggings in my pack,” she says as way of explanation as she crosses to the bags.

He removes his own trousers as she dons a pair of leggings, each trying not to watch the other. She mostly succeeds. Grabbing the remainder of their lunch, she drops to the plank floor and sits next to him. “Thank you,” he says taking the food, but gesturing to the blanket. “I’m surprised you’d forgotten you had more clothes.”

“Not forgotten,” she says, biting into an apple: “Chose to ignore.”

He takes a bite of cheese, responds, “Well, I guess you got your wish: we’re alone in the Wilderness.”

She laughs out loud, and he joins her in a chuckle. She returns, “There wasn’t rain in my wish.” They eat in silence, listening to the storm outside. “What about the squad?”

“If we are in this, they will be, too. Jonas will know we were delayed. He will not expect to see us until the storm passes. If we stayed on track, we should be no more than a good hour’s or so ride from the encampment. We should plan to spend the night, weather the storm or at least wait for some sort of daylight. We’ll need to find the families that own this barn and compensate them for the damage.”

“Yes,” she smiles, “after all, they will be able to boast: ‘The Herald of Andraste once slept here’.” She giggles with nerves; right now, sleeping is the furthest thing from her mind.

She came out here, traipsed a third of the way across Ferelden, to assert her freedom.  There is no one here to second guess her, to find fault, to push her into her function, to need her to solve some issue: there is no one here but this man.

After a few moments, she comes to a decision. Opportunities like this never just _present_ themselves, but perhaps this time it has. There is nothing for it but to plunge in. “So, you want me to come back?” she asks quietly.

 “Dorothea?”

“This,” she holds out the coin in her palm, “for luck? To come back?”

“Yes.”

“I hope to, to come back.” She smiles tightly. “But I may not.” She tries to say it lightly, but her voice is tight. “If all I have is this moment then, for now,” she moves into him cupping his face with her hands, “let there just be this moment.” She leans in and kisses him, pressing her lips into his, her tongue demanding entrance to his mouth. It is the sweetest feeling of relief when he groans and returns her kiss. His hands move to her waist and pull her to him. She feels the heat of him, so sharp a contrast with the chill that lingers from the rain.

But it isn’t enough, and she disentangles from his lips long enough to sling one of her legs around his waist, settles into his lap, locks her legs around his waist to pull herself closer to him. She presses, reveling in the hardness of his body under only a thin sheath of linen and not all of his normal plate. His hands grab her buttocks and pull her tightly into him. One of his hands caresses up from her bottom, dips into the curve of her hips to her waist, trails along her side, finds her chest, cups a breast and lifts it into a gentle, firm squeeze. She groans with the exquisite feel of the shift of the weight as he palms and massages the orb. Her head tips back and he traces his tongue up from her collarbone, following the cords of muscle in her neck up to her jaw. He nips lightly there and she shivers in pleasure. The Anchor crackles and she fights to surface, to reassure him.

“—what will it do?” he asks, his forehead to hers, his eyes looking into her face as he struggles for a calming breath.

“It only ever flares,” she says breathily, “no demons, no rifts.”

“Praise be to Andraste. Grab the blanket, wrap all of your limbs around me, and hold tight.”

“Where are we—?” And then he lifts. He moves with her as if she isn’t a ten stone mage.

“There is a loft upstairs with loose straw and there are stairs along the west wall.” He pauses and looks at her. “Is this what you want?”

She looks into his liquid amber eyes: “For now, I want nothing else but you.”

“And I you,” and he climbs the first riser.

“You know I can walk,” she says wryly.

“Probably. But if we are to be ruled by what we want, I have wanted for the last week to press you against my body. I have wanted nothing more for as many months as I can think to remember. For this moment, I will not let you go.”

She lowers her head to the side, to his shoulder, and rests her forehead there. He continues up to the loft.

“Here, I think. We’re near the chimney. It will be warmer.” He sets her down to her feet to take the blanket from her, moves straw—alfalfa and heather—in a thick layer and drapes the blanket on top of it. Then he stands again. It is dark as the lantern is downstairs and light only comes up from spaces in the floor that open to below.

“I have candles in my bags,” she says as he moves to her. “I would like to see you.”

“No,” he says in the dim light, “I will not walk away. We keep having to figure out how to start over,” he rubs a thumb over her cheek, his fingers cupping her head, reaching behind her ear. “I want you, Dorothea. I want to taste every part of you and I will not walk away from you tonight until I know for certain that you will demand for me to touch you the moment I return.”

Then he pulls her to him, his arm around her waist, his hand pulling her into his kiss. He molds her body into his. Outside the rain beats a relentless rhythm on the tin roof of the barn, amplified now that they are directly below it. It is little matter since Dorothea can only hear the groans of longing that come up from her belly.

Cullen’s fingers work down her shirt, moving buttons aside until he has cleared the bottom hem, the entire time tasting her tongue and lips with his own. His hands move the shirt off her shoulders and down her arms while his mouth tips over her jaw and down her neck. As the shirt moves to her wrists, he drops to his knees and places kisses around her breast band and trails down to her abdomen. He holds her arms bound in the shirt and pulls her into him to bury his nose in her skin, nipping with teeth at her belly, dragging his nose over the fine textured skin.

Eventually his hands pull the shirt free from her arms and he moves his lips up from her waist and his hands to either side of her chest. His fingertips trace under the edge of her breast band. Sighing with longing, she reaches to release its straps and when the tension relaxes on the fabric he moves hands up to twine it away from her body.

He doesn’t touch her yet, however. Instead he shifts his fingertips down her belly to the banded waist of her leggings. He pulls the rolled edge gently down, tugging at them and her smalls to reveal her hips, the hair of her sex, the tender tops of her thighs; he removes them, rolling the fabric away from her skin with the barest of fingertips dragging across skin. He lowers the layers of cloth to the floor and she steps out of them.

In the dim light she can see the golden hair of his head as he kneels in front of her and regards her body. With a whisper of breath she feels his hands lay lightly on her waist. Gently, she discerns him skim his fingers down her hips to her thighs. His fingers and thumbs are splayed wide and he places an occasional kiss on a thigh, on her belly, on her waist. He drags his hands back up from her knees and moves his thumbs to caress up the inside of her thighs until they meet the curl of hair there.

With delicate strokes he disturbs and rubs the hair. Dorothea’s breath leaves her body and she braces her hands to his shoulders to steady herself. A whine escapes her throat at the sweet, tentative contact and his mouth rushes into hers to steal the whine with a kiss. She feels rather than sees his grin, her eyes shut, senses reeling, as he moves his hands to her hips, grips them, stands in front of her. He pulls her against him and the friction of his linen shirt catches her nipples, nipples hardened in the cool dim, greedy for the wont of attention. She hisses at the contact.

He moves his hand to her neck, holds her slightly back from him, asks: “Candles?”

“Fuck, no,” she gasps.

Even in the dimness she can see his grin and he takes his hands from her and pulls his shirt over his head. Her hands fly to his smalls, push them over hips where they would loosely hang save for his erection. They fall to the ground and before he can move his feet she mashes into him, laying every inch of skin she can against him. His cock grinds into her and he sways for a brief moment before he firmly pulls her into his body with one arm while the other finds her breast.

Lightning flashes and thunder shudders through the plank floor. The Anchor stutters and the faintest of hues springs up around them. She moans into his mouth as he cups and holds her breast, his thumb resting on the taut nipple, lightly testing the peak. He pushes his forehead against hers, looking to the Anchor, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she gasps, “but I would like not to be.”

Without a word, he drops a knee to the blanket and straw and pulls her down after him. As she follows him, his hands move to her breasts and his lips trail them. The feeling of his mouth closing over one of them undoes her and she arches into him, collapsing fully to the blanket. Her hands roam his chest, feeling muscle and scars, planes and valleys she’s never seen before. Her leg hooks up and around his hips as she pulls herself to him. One of his hands shifts and questing fingers move the lips of her sex, tracing the edge as her body responds with moisture and more heat. She reaches her right hand for his cock and when she finds purchase on the silken, firm member she mewls with pleasure in her throat.

Her left hand is on his shoulder when she does, so she sees his eyes slam close and his mouth gape in desire at the sound she makes, at the stroke of her hand. Smirking, she pushes his face to hers and grabs him in a kiss. They are all tongues and lips, the pulse of need and desire beating with the pelting of the raindrops. She shifts her other leg, moves it around his backside. She angles her hips, shifts his cock with her hand, and, with a quiet lift of her hips, she pulls him into her wetness.

Cullen has one hand on her hip, the other in a fist on the blanket next to her shoulder. His head rests on her shoulder as he breathes in labored shudders through his nose. Dorothea begins to shift her hips, pulling back slightly and then raising them to meet his body.

“Dorothea, you must—I can’t—” his voice is thick, need and want making him pant.

“Can’t what?” she purrs, pausing slightly in her rhythm.

“I can’t stop. You must wait.” She realizes he is on the precipice, ready to come undone. She moves her left hand, the Anchor quieter, but the magic casts a slight sheen of light. She cups his face. As she touches his stubble he opens his eyes to look at her. She peers into him; the rain drives again, the world suddenly cloud and chaos outside.

“Maker, why would I want this to wait?” she smiles. “This moment, only this moment—” and she raises her head to his ear, whispers into it on a breath, “—until the next moment. You promised to make me beg, Cullen, for your lips. I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” and she nips his ear.

He growls and begins to thrust and roll into her. It is not gentle, but Dorothea welcomes the tumult, the feeling of possession, of completion.

In moments, Cullen begins to arch and his hands close around the backs of her shoulders, centering her as he drives to his climax. At the sensation of his movement and the twitch of him inside her, she feels a deep thrum in her womb. It is not the high of a quick tickle or fondle, but a release of tension from inside her that buoys her sense of happiness and then leaves her craving more, craving the frenetic ecstasy of orgasm.

She clings to him as he settles from his own frenzy. He is unguarded in this moment and she blissfully tangles her fingers into his hair and she strokes his waist, trailing fingers to his bottom. She will rouse him again in a moment, for she is far from finished for the evening, but for now . . .

_Let there be this moment._


	14. Chapter 14

Cullen shifts and wakes to the sound of armor jangling. Instinctively he looks down expecting to see his own. Instead he discovers he is very naked and held firmly against his side is Dorothea. Her skin glows in the muted light of the barn’s loft.

Suspecting he knows what he hears, he gently edges away from her. He takes care to wrap his greatcoat around her so she doesn’t wake from the cold he leaves when he rises. Picking up his shirt and pulling it over his head, he looks outside through the loft’s hatch. Yes, it is as he thought: Jonas is down below. He huffs a sigh of relief when he sees only two horses.

He crouches down by Dorothea and resists the urge to reach out and kiss her. He suspects Jonas has already been inside, seen them, and will not re-enter unasked. But Cullen would be sure. He and Dorothea need to speak and the too present reality of the Inquisition will not help that.

He treads softly down the steps. They are broad, wide treads with deep risers, well designed so that even a young boy could easily move a bale of straw down from the loft in winter to feed animals below. The barn is massive; it most certainly stores fodder for more than one nearby village, more than one near farm.

He dresses quickly in his leathers and slides on his boots. He leaves off his gambeson and armor. He checks the horses and sees fresh grain for them. It is as he thought: Jonas has been inside.

He wipes a hand over his face. In Kirkwall many suspected he had bedded Meredith Stannard. It never bothered him because he had no desire to do so and Meredith’s own madness left little room in her for intimacy or even friendship. But with Dorothea . . . he wants this, all of this: to lead these men and women and to do it at her side. He pulls back his shoulders, lifts his head. He may as well start here to see if that is possible and he pushes aside what will need to be done if it isn’t. He sets his resolve and steps out into the light of the morning.

Jonas and Malkiel step to attention as the door opens. He murmurs for them to stand down and asks for a status report. He listens to Jonas, looks for signs of anything unusual or untoward in the man’s behavior. But nothing is there.

“When the storm cleared out of the area at the beginning of the third watch, Malkiel and I set off on the path we thought you would take. Ser Abelard has command of the camp. Sylva came out with us, too. When I found Hedda and Gelgenig inside, I sent her back with word that we’d located you. They will wait on us; the camp is less than two hours’ hard ride.” Jonas finishes, covering all the details Cullen will need. The delay is not ideal, but allowing everything to dry in camp is as good of an excuse as any for waiting.

“The door, Jonas—” Cullen turns to gesture, but Jonas anticipates him.

“Yes, Ser. The nearest village lies just there,” Jonas points to the north. “Malkiel and I will break our camp after full sunrise and go in search of a mayor. I have some of our gold with us, Ser, and we should be able to compensate.” Jonas hesitates. “The mayor will undoubtedly want to come to see the damage, Ser.” Cullen understands the implied question.

“As would I if I were he.” Jonas relaxes imperceptibly. Cullen calculates that will give him and Dorothea a little over two hours to speak; Maker willing it will be enough. “Please do so, Jonas. The Inquisitor and I would both like to extend our gratitude.”

Jonas nods his understanding. “We have brought provisions, Commander. I assume you would like to take some back with you.” Cullen nods his agreement and follows the men to their fire, which stands off and away from the barn. Sitting there would have given the two soldiers a better view of the perimeter and—he flushes to realize—him and Dorothea a bit of privacy if they had not been asleep.

Their animals are there, curried and tethered. It is obvious to Cullen that Jonas—after verifying the safety of his reporting officers—chose discretion and would have waited them out. As a bag with pan bread, butter, fruit, and salted fish is pressed into his hands, Cullen is grateful Jonas refreshed their quick provisions in Redcliffe. He takes the bag and turns to go. Jonas stops him.

“Wait, Ser,” and Jonas grabs two tin cups, moving to put them into the bag and pulls the coffee pot away from the fire. The aroma reaches up and into Cullen’s nostrils, making his stomach growl. The richness of the smell reminds him they’ve eaten sparsely the day before. Jonas smiles at the Commander and says quietly, pitched so Malkiel will not hear: “I do not think the Inquisitor would forgive me, Ser, if you don’t bring this with you.”

Cullen gratefully accepts back the bag and the pot of coffee with it. He regards Jonas who greets his look with an open smile. “We will break camp within the half hour, Ser, and return with the mayor.”

“We’ll look to your return. Two hours?” Cullen confirms.

“Aye, Ser. At least,” Jonas responds.

“Thank you, Jonas. You have managed well.” Cullen turns to go, walks back to the barn with his bounty in tow. He removes his boots and retakes the loft. Dorothea is still asleep, but dawn filters in around the barn’s loft window. He crosses to it and opens it a crack to let in fresh air and bird song. He senses she approaches wakefulness and he doesn’t want the dark to startle her.

He sits down, crosses his legs, and watches her, sipping his coffee. Taken by the soft perfection of the morning, a sigh escapes his lips as he closes his eyes in pleasure. He chants:

Lady of Perpetual Victory, your praises I sing!  
Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable  
Of your glory! Let me be the vessel  
Which bears the Light of your promise  
To the World Expectant.

When he opens his eyes he finds she stares at him, her gaze probing, her face relaxed in observation. Before he can say anything she speaks: “You are quite lovely when you are content.” She rises up on an elbow; the cloak carelessly slips down her side. “I dare say half of your armed forces wouldn’t recognize you right now.”

He leans in to her and rubs the back of his fingers down her cheek to her neck, to the hollow of it. He rubs the pulse point at her collarbone with a thumb, drifts his hand down the swell of her breast, “I suppose it could be said of you, too,” and he brushes a kiss onto her lips.

She sucks in a breath at his voice, low and husky, and at his touch, confident and familiar. Her eyes fly open: “Maker, is that coffee?”

At that he smiles and passes her the mug. She grasps it between both hands, warming them, and she pulls the steam into her face, a look of bliss in her eyes. She sips, looks around the loft, and asks, her voice pitched low, “Are they downstairs?”

He shakes his head no, “Outside; Jonas and Malkiel will head off to find the village and a mayor to speak with about the barn door.”

“Just them?” she asks.

“And Sylva; they sent her back to the encampment to let them know we had been located.”

He knows the same thought crosses her mind as it had his: Sylva is one of Leliana’s. Dorothea’s next statement confirms it: “Leliana will know before dusk settles at Skyhold, then.”

He nods, weighing his next words. “She will know something. We should talk about what that is.”

Dorothea visibly steels herself. She sits up, wraps his greatcoat around her, covers her breasts and body but leaves her shoulders bare. “I think you should stop.”

His breath falters in his chest.

“I don’t know what you’re getting ready to say,” she continues, “but I am certain no good will come of it.”

“I’m listening,” he says woodenly, cautiously.

“Cullen, we had to come out to the middle of nowhere to do this, to be capable of this. I would like to think that it will be easier when we return, that we will be able to put all of the pieces together, that we could be together,” she rubs fingertips over her brow, “Shit, I would like to think it will be easier once we get back to camp. But, what if it is _not_ easier? We have to keep figuring out how to start over. When we’re back, we may never again get past starting over.”

She looks at him, beseeching him with her eyes to understand her. His body goes chill and he forces his sense of disquiet to paralyze. He hears his own voice as if it comes from across a large room, the sound disconnected from his being and tinny in his ear, “So, this is a dalliance?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers it. Then her voice is slightly stronger: “But maybe it should be.”  A look of frustration and pain crosses his face. She closes her eyes in a grimace, runs her fingers through her short hair to smooth it, “Shit, I—,” she bites her lips, her eyes shut. “Cullen, I don’t know what I have to offer you.” She says it quietly, resignation and exhaustion in her tone.

He flushes with frustration and irritation, “If this is because you are a mage, it does not matter.”

She looks up, meets his eyes, bites back, “Of course it matters that I am a mage,” she throws at him, “but more than that, I am the Inquisitor,” she shakes her head and the Anchor flares and unsettles him with how it parodies the strength of her emotions. She pushes into the silence:

“I will likely be dead before Wintermarch next year. You cannot deny it, Commander.”

The grimness of her statement stuns him. He nods his head in mute acknowledgement of her truth, marshals himself to respond, but she overrules him.

“Even if by some miracle I am still standing after we defeat Corypheus, I am still a mage. The Chantry will eventually choose a new Divine; people will go back to their lives, and they will forget that a mage saved them all. It is only a matter of time before the Circles reform.” Her eyes pierce into him. “They will make me go back. Would you have the strength to be my keeper as well as my lover?”

Her question makes him feel ashamed, and he looks down at his hands.

He hears her laugh mirthlessly: “I don’t even have the Grey Wardens to take refuge with; I took care of that.”

“Dorothea, you are the Inquisitor you—, you will be the one who saves us, who saves Thedas. You can make any choice you want—” he flounders, the idea in his brain sliding away.

“Run.” She nods. “I could. I could even go to Tevinter, maybe travel with Bull. But make no mistake, Cullen, I would be running, and the Chantry would know it. I would be outside their laws.” Her words are soft now, spoken almost in a caress, detached from their implication: “Would you honestly do that? Could you honestly do that? Harbor a fugitive? Be a fugitive?” She shakes her head, won’t let him answer, answers for him: “No. There is only—and there can only—be this moment.”

She stands, walks to the window. “All the rest of it is too hard and probably won’t come anyway.” She looks outside, nods to herself. He dimly hears the jangle of harness from outside the window. She pulls open the hatch and light from the rising dawn streams in. She moves back from the window several steps, her back still to him. His greatcoat falls to the ground in a soft swoosh of sound. He marvels at the gentle swell of her hip, the softness of skin laid over firm shoulders, delicate ankles that curve into luscious legs. Without turning she says: “If you cannot accept this moment for what it has to give, then you need to walk away now. I am not interested in your aspirations for the future; I hold no expectations beyond now.”

She holds out her hand in front of her, watching the Anchor undulate in the light, like a shimmer of water.

 _I do_.

He wants to say.

_I hold expectations, for luck._

But he recognizes the firm set of her jaw, the steel in her spine. Perhaps she is right. He has brought them out here, after all, to give her only a moment. It is folly of him to expect more, to press more, and he is not a man prone to foolish actions.

He stands, walks to her, slips his arms around her waist, and pulls her back into his chest. “I will take with you everything this moment has to give us,” he murmurs in her ear.

She sighs, turns her head and shoulders, and kisses him with yearning.


	15. Chapter 15

Jonas hugs his big sister one last time before she gets on the merchant’s cart to return to her home.

“Ah, Jo-Jo,” Mathilde brackets his shoulders with her hands, love and pride shining from her face, unshed tears making her eyes glow. “Opa would be so proud of you. You are doing the Bride’s work, may She keep you safe from harm.” She reaches up on tiptoe and puts a kiss to his cheek.

He bends down and kisses her forehead, feels the reassuring weight of home in her presence. He clears his throat, trying to dispel his emotion, and steps back to look in her face: “The Commander approved the patrols through the village once a sennight. It should make the winter a bit easier, and when they come though, you can send along any message that you like: it will always get to me.” He stresses this last.

When she had gotten off of the wagon at her arrival just three days before, he could not have fathomed the weight of grief she bore to him. His grandfather had passed in the spring and, having no reliable way to get a message to Jonas, she had not been able to send word, all the while getting his updates that he sent every other month from Skyhold. Alon Downer had not been a young man, living 72 winters, but the loss of the family’s patriarch in the midst of such turmoil and political unrest has taken its toll on his older sister.

She smiles up at him, the tears starting to overflow from her eyes, but she breathes in, says, “Take care, Jonas, and be well.” She gathers her skirts as he helps to lift her into the cart which already bears her parcels for his family, gifts from the Inquisitor: a small bolt of fine wool, bottles of fruit liquor, and bags of salt.

She settles herself, and the cart driver, seeing that his passenger is ready, waves at Jonas and clucks to his team. Jonas stands to attention, clutches his fist to his heart in salute, and watches as they leave the yard of the keep. As they turn the corner, Mathilde lifts a hand in a final farewell and then she is gone.

Jonas turns toward the area that the Commander set up as a command station while they have been here. Arl Bryland departed yesterday and the Inquisition is scheduled to take their leave tomorrow morning for the journey back to Skyhold. Jonas’s duty shift starts in another hour, but he knows there is much to do to prepare to leave and now that Mathilde is gone his heart is heavy. The pace of work will be comforting.

The Commander sits behind the temporary desk, his gloves on, tucked back into a shadowy recess of the stable offices. Jonas has gotten quite good at reading his commanding officer and he knows that a nauseating headache threatens to swamp the man. Before Jonas approaches, he flags down a runner and asks that a pot of mint tea from the kitchens be delivered to the Commander along with some bread and butter. Without asking, Jonas knows that the Commander will not have eaten this morning.

He approaches and salutes, waiting to be acknowledged. Barely looking up, the Commander says softly, “Jonas, your sister is off safely?”

Jonas stands at ease and moves to the Commander’s side, away from the light of the door so that the other man can look at him without the glare of the late morning sun at Jonas’s back. “Yes, Ser. She left just moments ago. I thought to get a head start on preparations for tomorrow. I appreciate the time off, Ser, but I imagine there is much to be done,” and you taking on too much, Jonas thinks, but doesn’t dare say.

As the Commander nods and then begins to dictate orders still left to fulfill and final supplies left to acquire before they leave on the morrow, it is as Jonas suspects. The Commander directed Malkiel to the next hold two mornings gone and the brunt of the work that the two adjutants had shared between them has fallen squarely to Commander Rutherford’s shoulders.

Jonas does not know what has happened between the Commander and the Inquisitor, but it is apparent that it has not gone smoothly.

When he and Malkiel had returned from the village to the barn with the mayor and a delegation in tow, the Inquisitor and the Commander had been understandably formal despite their . . . previous intimacies. They represented the Inquisition at that moment, and both of Jonas’s commanding officers understand the import of duty.

Seeking discretion and not wanting to actually _ask_ , he had directed both of their tents to be erected when they made camp again that night. Jonas had taken part in the night watch around that part of the perimeter of camp, alternating with Malkiel, both of them seeking to protect and shield the officers from idle gossip.

But it hadn’t mattered. The Inquisitor retired to her tent after an unusually quiet evening and the Commander had sat on his own long into the night, watching the dying of the embers of his fire before he, too, retired to his own tent. Quick conquests in camp are nothing unusual in the sorte parties; so it had befuddled Jonas when he realized that they both retired to their own tents.  But he supposes that, being in a position of authority, the rules are different.

When they arrived at the keep outside of Lothering Crossing the two seemed to avoid each other during the day, keeping company either with Arl Brlyand or the Arlessa, who had both come out to meet them. Once Mathilde arrived, Jonas was not as aware of their movements, but he didn’t imagine anything else had changed judging on the hunched, tight look to the Commander.

Taking down the rest of the Commander’s directives, Jonas does not see the kitchen girl that came in with a tray and a pot of tea.

“What is this?” The Commander asks, irritation in his tone.

“I was asked to bring this, Ser. It’s tea.”

“I can see that. Set it down over there,” the Commander waves to an open space. After a beat he offers: “Thank you,” she makes her curtsy to leave and he crosses to the low table where she left it.

“Hold a moment,” he calls after the servant, his voice sounding lighter than when Jonas walked in. “There are two cups here, did the Inquisitor –” his question stilts and the span of the man in the small, closed space swamps the senses.

“Nay, Ser, it was I,” offers Jonas into the awkward silence. “They must have thought I meant to take a cup, but I ordered it up for you; I assumed you have not broken your fast since the Arl was not present today.”

The Commander nods and sits down to the table in the sitting area by the fire, takes up a cup for tea. But he puts it back down rather forcefully on the table, and Jonas notices the slight tremor in his hands. Instead, the Commander shifts to the bread, taking a large piece and covering it with butter. Jonas approaches to pour the tea and sees the kitchen sent cheese and a few pickled eggs, too; he will have to stop in and personally thank the head cook for his thoughtfulness.

Jonas fills the cup for his Commander and begins to put back the pot when the man says: “Please, Jonas, join me; I won’t go anyway near to finishing the pot before it goes cool.”

Jonas pours his own cup and sits next the Commander. “Thank you, Ser. I broke my fast with Mathilde, but the weather begins to push in here and it is cold and damp this morning.” The Commander absently rubs his knee and Jonas asks, “Are you all right, Ser? Did you injure it?”

The Commander stills, pauses, and speaks to Jonas’s waiting silence: “Yes, I hit it; last night, in the dark.”

Jonas replies: “Strange bedrooms, there is always a corner waiting to catch one,” trying to inject a bit of levity into the terse conversation.

The Commander furrows his brow. “Yes. Strange rooms: not what you expect.”

“Has the trip been successful, Ser? Did you accomplish all of your objectives?” Jonas asks.

The Commander finishes his tea in his cup and Jonas begins to refill it from the pot before an answer comes: “We certainly established our obstacles.”

Before Jonas can think of a response to the Commander’s ambiguous statement, a runner enters the door. Jonas crosses to him and takes the missives. The top one is from Seneschal Leliana and it is addressed to the Commander. Jonas walks over to him and hands him the letter. Sighing, the man takes it out of Jonas’s hands, nodding his thanks. Jonas returns to the desk to continue sorting through the rest of the correspondence. He looks up when he hears a soft curse from the Commander and sees him rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Jonas waits and then asks: “Are there new orders, Ser?”

“Yes, Jonas,” the Commander gathers himself and a different tone enters his voice: one that sounds more normal to the command he usually exhibits, “When we depart tomorrow the Inquisitor will not be with us. She will be diverted to the north to the edge of Lake Calenhad where she will meet some of the Companions. The Seneschal reports the Red Templars stronghold has been verified in Daerwin’s Mouth: it is time to address it. We will leave behind a modest escort guard for her to ride north in two days’ time. I want you to task Gretchen, Palfrey, and Lucien to accompany her,”—he pauses; adds—“and Sylva, send Sylva with them.”

Already knowing the answer, Jonas verifies it anyway: “Do you want to send a Templar, Ser?”

“Maker, no,” the Commander says into his cup as he drains it, his voice echoing oddly, “I think I’ve found enough trouble on this trip to last me the rest of the war without that,” he says faintly.

Jonas nods his understanding, sends a missive to the Inquisitor to detail the change of orders, gathers his notes, and heads out of the office to fulfill his tasks. He finds Palfrey, shares the new orders, and charges the lieutenant with preparations for the journey. Palfrey shows every indication of looking forward to travelling with the Inquisitor, but when Jonas mentions that Sylva is to accompany them, the grizzled warrior begins to bluster—“Why is the Commander saddling us with that young one? Bah, let her go back and sneak about the mountains for her mistress and leave me to mine.”—and Jonas listens to Palfrey patiently. The man spins himself out and Jonas promises to find and tell Sylva of her new assignment while Palfrey finds the other two and meets with the Inquisitor to discover her wishes.

It is not until the early afternoon that Jonas finally finds Sylva. She had been on guard rotation during the previous night, as she has been each night they were in Redcliffe and here in Lothering.

When Jonas had went to retrieve Seneschal Leliana’s list for her ravens back in Skyhold, she had indicated to Jonas that she was tasking Sylva with keeping watch over the Inquisitor while they were in other’s fortresses.

The rogue is fletching arrows in anticipation of travel. She is a master with her short bow, her small stature contradicting the power of her draw. Her stealth and quickness make her a deadly force.

“Halo, Sylva,” he greets her.

“Jonas,” she returns, not taking her eyes off of her work. “Do you finally come to tell me I am to join the Inquisitor north?” Jonas should not be surprised she has managed to gather knowledge of her next assignment, but he is slightly. For all of the Lady Seeker’s lessons about not broadcasting his movements and intentions, he still struggles to master his eyes and he suspects they give him away now when she says: “Palfrey is cranky; well, more than usual.”

Jonas nods and accepts this with good humor. He pulls a stool over to where she sits and asks, “Well, is there any information I can give you?” He says it with a smile, but his time with the Commander—observing  the man and learning--serves him well now. He waits patiently and exhibits courteous indifference.

Sylva drawls into his quiet: “I should think I know one or two things you do not, Jonas,” she glances up at him: “I took my own missive from Skyhold.”

“Today?”

“When we arrived,” she smiles slightly at the lift of surprise in Jonas’s eyebrows. “Will you barter?”

“Perhaps. What do you want to know?”

She raises a finger for each point she ticks off: “One: why did the Commander not send proxies in to the field; Two, why come himself; Three, what transpired the night of the storm?”

Jonas forces himself to pause, to find his breath. “I’ll give you the first and the second,” he answers carefully, “but not the last.” He does not try to divert her by suggesting he doesn’t know what she asks. He forces his face to passivity: “In exchange for — ?”

“The nature of the Inquisitor’s next mission, who do send her, and why she be preempted from returning back to Skyhold.”

“Done.”

On that crisp syllable, Sylva sets aside her fletching, faces him on her stool, and gestures for Jonas to begin now that they are down to business.

“The Commander wished to get out of Skyhold and to see for himself to our supply and roster concerns, that was always accurate,” Sylva tips her head in acknowledgement, but hovers expectantly. “The Commander also wanted the company of the Inquisitor. He planned the excursions, setting up journeys that would take us near Honnleath, where he grew up. He desired to show her a bit of who he had been before the Order.”

This last, if Jonas were to be honest, is wild speculation on his part. But he has done this often enough with Sylva on this trip, teasing out and supplementing each other’s knowledge for their reporting officers: he knows he needs just the barest hint of overheard information to keep her interested. This sort of interaction would never have been instinctual for him a year ago, but he has had a solid training in the exchanges of the Ambassador and the Commander in presenting the public face of the Inquisition. Jonas learned by observation how to play on the expectations of one’s audience and reveal only what one wishes to let go.

Of course, he must assume Sylva does this well, too. So, they both negotiate the information with kid gloves. It does not occur to either of them to spin untruths for the other. Such lies are not palatable among comrades, even if full honesty is not possible.

Jonas sits and waits expectantly. Sylva returns: “The Inquisitor will meet The Iron Bull, Altus Pavus, and Master Tethras in four days’ time on the northern side of Lake Calenhad’s docks. From there they travel to the Storm Coast to the harbor of Daerwin’s Mouth. They investigate the reported Red Templar stronghold found by our scouts. Rumor of a High Dragon in the area, too, and they will assess the approach to its lair. The Inquisitor was reluctant before Adamant to task resources to Ferelden, but the Lady Seeker do believe the Inquisitor will be receptive to these requests now.” Jonas accepts this and expects that is all he will get, but Sylva draws breath and continues: “The Spymistress arranges for this now as she wishes to _question_ the Commander when he returns to Skyhold without the Inquisitor present. Likewise, the choice of companions is needful; the Spymistress believes that of the Lady Trevelyan’s acquaintances, these three be the most meddlesome.”

Sylva has given him more than he expected. He sits quietly for a moment to try to discern what she seeks to lead him to.

“You make it sound as if the Spymistress does not wish the Commander and the Inquisitor to be better acquainted.”

“I did speak no such thing,” Sylva states steadily, staring levelly at Jonas.

“No,” he agrees. “You did not.”

“The Grey Warden,” she shifts and picks up an arrow, “left a mess to straighten. I believe my mistress concerns herself with how to keep the Inquisitor focused on Corypheus.”

“And you, Sylva? What do you concern yourself with?”

Sylva is carefully quiet and begins to gather her working materials and prepares to leave. She straightens and pauses a moment with her back to Jonas; she makes a decision he can read in the set of her shoulders and she throws back at him: “The Inquisitor do move about and not spend the whole of her nights in her bed.”

“And do you know to where she goes?”

“Aye, and so do you, though she be back in it each morning before the first glimmers of light pierce the plains.” Sylva turns and faces Jonas. “I come from Kirkwall. What the Divine and that rat Anders did there . . . Well, I can’t say if everything I’ve heard is true or if it wasn’t even necessary. But I do know the Commander is a good man. He kept Kirkwall sane, which be no small feat on a red night. He shouldn’t be punished for the actions of the man who was a murderer and a traitor.”

“Even though that traitor backed the same horse the Inquisitor did?” Jonas cannot help but ask.

Sylva smiles toothily. “A traitor is just someone who be loyal and lost.  The Inquisitor ensured she didn’t lose,” she shrugs and turns back away to leave. “Look to our Commander, Jonas.”

“And you to the Inquisitor, Sylva; Andraste guide you.”

She nods curtly, raises a hand in farewell, and then is gone.

Jonas sits and mulls over the information she has given him. If he is going to mention any of this to the Commander, Jonas is going to make sure that what he says makes sense.

It bewilders Jonas that the Lady Leliana would work so hard simply to have a conversation and, about what? That the Commander and the Inquisitor might care for one another? Might fuck one another? What could there possibly be to talk about? Jonas wishes the Lady Seeker was here; she would know the best way forward.

No, Jonas needs to think about this. It will be a long trek back to Skyhold. He will have enough time over the next few days to decide how and if he should share with the Commander the machinations of the Spymistress.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

Dorothea wakes, her breath rushing out of her mouth, her pulse pushing against her throat. Her vision purples as she shoots up in the bed. On impulse, she reaches out with fire and throws it at the coals in the fireplace. The embers burst briefly, swallowing the last of the coals in a rush of heat and light and then quickly die down again. She pushes her legs out of the wrapped mess that she has made of the sheets and blankets. The air is cool and pebbles her naked skin, but she welcomes the sensation as one that is real, one that grounds her in the present.

She walks stiltedly to the basin, takes the ewer of water, fills a glass, and throws it back. This had been a new nightmare. The rage demon that tormented her tonight did not miss the mark by wearing her mother’s face; this time it had worn the Commander’s. She knows that what she had seen wasn’t true, could never be true, but it does not stop the cold, quaking fear in her stomach.

She gasps and chokes on the water as she remembers the feeling of being smited and his hands—the hands that had run over her breasts, her hips, tangled in her hair—the feeling of those hands wrapping around her throat still lingers. Unbidden her own fly there now, the glass falling and shattering on the flagstones. A sob rises up out of her and she sinks to her knees, uncaring that the glass on the floor is pushing into them, into her calves. The feeling of blood running in rivulets to the floor does nothing to interrupt her sobs.

She is bent there—kneeling, elbows locked, hands on her thighs, breath in labored shudders as the tears flow—she is bent there when the door opens. Tense and exhausted she raises a barrier over herself and readies the Anchor to open a tear to the Veil as she waits to see if Venatori, darkspawn, demons, or some other fresh hell has come to visit her.

It is as she feared: a demon. It wears the Commander’s face and reaches for her. Terror locks her throat, but her hesitation is overruled by her adrenaline as she gains her feet, scrambling back. She slips and stumbles in the blood from her legs and starts to slide. She wants to pull to the Anchor, to call a Rift, but it is all she can do to concentrate on staying on her feet and not falling prone.

Before she can absorb why the Commander’s Demon is not in his armor, but in his night linens, Sylva pokes her head around the door, takes in the sight of both of them in the room. Sylva’s eyes go wide and with a shout she calls, “Knight-Captain!”

The Commander Demon lurches at the distraction, his head bobbing slightly. In that moment Dorothea sees Sylva—is it Sylva?—nod her head in a decision. The rogue tumbles into the room, moving effortlessly from hands to feet as if she moves across a dance floor. Dorothea watches this new apparition in horror as the other woman lands, daggers at the ready in each hand, squaring off with Dorothea.

But the girl doesn’t attack and just as the Sylva apparition can fully get out the words, “Inquisitor! It is a vision, nothing more!”, the Cullen Demon swipes his legs underneath the rogue’s feet, gets her on the ground, and shoves his hand into her throat. Sylva drops her daggers, her hands open in a gesture of surrender, “No contest, Commander, you look like you needed help is all; us Gallows folk got to stick together.”

Dorothea sees the Commander Demon check his movement, and then he looks up at Dorothea, makes her meet his eyes: “Dorothea, I need you to come back to me; I am me, not whatever terror the Fade brought to you this night. Remember the coin; for luck.”

Then suddenly it is Cullen in front of her and not a demon, his hand still on Sylva’s sternum as if he is unsure what the rogue will do next. But he exposes his shoulder and neck to Dorothea: he does not fear her. With a cry of dismay, Dorothea takes in what she has nearly done, what has almost happened.

“Sylva, Sylva, are you all right?” Dorothea babbles her fear and uncertainty in every motion and movement. She doesn’t look Cullen in the eye again; she can’t. She kneels by the scout, winces at the pain coming from her knees. Cullen’s hands don’t retreat from Sylva’s chest so Dorothea pushes them away, starts to pull Sylva to sitting.

“Nay, Inquisitor, you’re wounded,” the rogue says, “you’ll need to tend them. It’s from the glass you dropped, I think. May I?” and Sylva gingerly moves the Inquisitor’s legs to inspect the cuts for embedded debris. Into the silence she speaks: “I watch each night for the Inquisitor, Commander, as she and my mistress arranged. When she is behind four walls, the visions—“

“They get bad.” Dorothea interrupts Sylva, the fog clearing. “I fail to remember sometimes who is who. Sylva was in Halamshiral; she and Leliana took it in turns. They have trained me to respond to them. Sylva watched over me in Redcliffe and here,” Dorothea squeezes the other woman’s hand in affection, “worried about me the night of the Storm, didn’t you little raven?” and then Dorothea brushes them away. She gains her feet and crosses to the wash basin, picks up a robe to sling around her shoulders, and pours fresh water into the basin. “Head to your bed, Sylva; I will not sleep again this night.” Dorothea moves to the fire and begins to bathe her legs to clean the blood and Heal her cuts.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Sylva salute her acceptance. Cullen gives Sylva a bewildered, cautious look and the rogue shoots him a sympathetic glance, shrugs her shoulder slightly, and closes the door behind her.

Dorothea sits, cleaning her legs. She knows she should offer answers, give explanations; but the words catch in her throat and stay. She realizes it is dark, but the embers from the fireplace and the Anchor provide enough light for her to see to her task. Cullen moves toward the log basket; he pulls several, resets a fire, and encourages the meek embers into flames again. The light in the room increases marginally, but the Anchor continues to shine forth as if holding an audience with retainers.

Dorothea’s hands still, and she looks down at her feet. She pulls her legs into her chest and folds her body against her thighs, drawing up her calves, hale and healthy now as if nothing has occurred. But the nightmare lingers; she wonders if the visions of him tormenting her will follow her to Skyhold and if she has invited some fresh, new hell into her existence.

She had been determined not to go to him this night, to try to spend it away, to see if she could. But, he is here, now. If she sought the approval of the Bride, she would be inclined to praise her in this moment.

Dorothea stands and crosses to in front of him, putting her back to the fire. Without a word or hesitation once she begins, she wraps her arms around his waist and pulls into his chest. She leans up and kisses him, drawing his lip between her teeth.

“We leave tomorrow,” he says when she shifts to caress his jaw with her lips.

“I know,” she answers. She does not pause in her attention to his neck, trailing her tongue down the cords in his throat. Her hands skim down to the hem of his tunic and questing fingers tease against bare skin.

Cullen tries to nod, but his breath hitches as her fingers lift his waistband and tease the skin there. His hands grip her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing against the silk of the robe. She knows from the previous few nights that he struggles admirably for control; but she also knows how to defeat it.

His eyes close in pleasure and he rushes out in a breath: “I had thought that there would be more time; that we could talk about this.”

“I thought there would be more time, too,” she returns quietly into the hollow of his neck, “but it seems that the Venatori never sleep and the Red Templars never get less crazy,” she slides her hands under his waistband, appreciates that he has no smalls on, “and this may be the last time we are together before Skyhold,” she pushes him firmly toward her, driving his hips into her waist; “do you really want to spend it talking, though?”

She nips at the jut of his chin with her teeth, rasping stubble and flesh. He growls deep in his chest and claims her mouth with his own. His tongue pushes in, stroking and claiming. Heat pushes into her cheeks as his hands cease their hesitation and move inside the silk of her robe. One finds the fullness of her breast, pulling at the soft mass, claiming it and drawing on the nipple until it sits taut and sensitive; his other slides down the swell of her hip, rounding to cup the curve of her buttock as her own hands hook over his trousers and begin to tug them away from his body.

They kiss as if the world is coming to an end; they kiss as if secrets are hidden inside each other’s tongues; they kiss as if nothing exists beyond the meeting of their lips.

She presses against the planes of his body, runs her hands up his chest, dragging his shirt with them and begins to wrap a leg around his knee to arch into him. But he stops quickly, moves the hand from her breast to her thigh to capture the leg and hold it. He smirks down at her: “It’s still painful from last night. I may be getting too old for sex against a wall.”

She smiles, laughs, and pulls herself up to his ear to purr: “I’m sure it was an unfair exhibition since it was stone. To be honest, my back wasn’t quite the same after, either. Perhaps the bed?” and she slides down out of his grasp with a smile and moves toward her bed. In the few short steps there she lets the robe finish falling from her elbows, the silk pooling in a heap.

When she reaches the bed, she casts an arm to clear the surface of the tumbled sheets, putting one knee on the edge so that she can push them further. Without warning, Cullen grabs her from behind. He wraps one hand around her breast and snakes the other arm around her waist to haul her up against his chest. Her hand reaches back to dig into his hair as he kisses and licks at her neck, nipping into the juncture of the slender column and her shoulder. The thumb on her breast moves to her nipple, circling around it, drawing it tighter and tighter into a fierce nub of want.

His other hand, though, is not idle for long. He shifts long, merciless, talented fingers down the expanse of her abdomen. They dip and swirl into her navel and he turns his hand to graze the tips of his fingernails down her lower belly. She groans with anticipation. Her breath stutters and she begins to softly moan as his teeth move along the bone of her shoulder. From the corner of her eye she can see him smile. His hand grazes lightly between the join of her thigh to her hip, skirting near her groin and then away again. He watches her as he places a delicate, chaste kiss on her shoulder, his thumb still teasing the tip of her nipple.

She goes to move a hand to reach for him, to reach for his cock, to end this madness of want and sensation. But he pulls himself into her and he is pressed into her backside, hard and unresisting and utterly unreachable by her fingers. She whines; he waits.

“Please,” she says.

It is what he waited for, and fingers dart quick and firm between the folds of her body. Over the last days his internal map of her body has been fine-tuned, and she marvels at how easily he finds the cluster of nerves, that most sensitive of spots. Perched on the edge of need, her body has long since been ready and moisture greets him. The swirl of friction weakens her leg that stands and she grinds onto his fingers. The hand on her breast shifts and his arm goes around her waist to support her as fingers dip into her center. Her head falls back to his shoulder and her fingers tighten in his hair, her other hand grabs his arm around her waist involuntarily.

“Cum for me,” he breathes into the spot under her ear as he kisses and nuzzles there.

She lets go and unfurls around him. Her voice lifts in the night, a hoarse shout of pleasure and heartbreak. She rides out the orgasm as he continues to stroke the lips of her sex, not letting her subside. She moves her hand from his hair to her mouth, whimpering into it as moisture squeezes out between her shut eyes.

Finally she has ridden the extent of her passion and she is spent. Cullen still stands behind her, one hand on her hip and his other arm still wrapped around her waist, pulling her into him. His head bows to her temple and they stand there as if he is trying to memorize the feel of her curves, the sound of her breath, the scent of her need.

She wants no less.

Turning in his arms, she kisses him softly and pulls him down to her as she lowers to the bed. His long body covers hers, and she shifts to bring them both together, drawing him along with kisses that he drinks from her mouth. Finally her head rests on a pillow and she shifts her legs to guide him over her. As he meets her with kisses, she moves to take his cock and slides him into her as she wraps her legs around his.

She cups his face in her hands and looks into his eyes: “Take what you gave so freely and let me see you undone.” He kisses her with gentle lips and she clings to him. She would draw him deeper into her body, swallow him whole and into her being, if she could. She cannot. So she settles for this, not knowing if it will be the last.

His movement is gentle, care and reverence in the roll of his body into hers. She wonders if he feels this, too; if this is to be all that they have, to take memories away. His body courses into hers and she feels her womb tighten in response. She breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of his sweat, his musk, the scent of their bodies mingled into one another. It is a heady perfume and she finds her skin beginning to perk with sensation. She looks to him, seeking to read his face, but it is severe in his desire as he is lost to the sensation of her body rising and greeting him.

Too soon, not soon enough, they rush into tumult. The rhythm they set becomes erratic; she feels him release and pour into her. She continues to move in long strokes, drawing him out, and the abundance of moisture and the lock of his pelvic as he orgasms pushes again into her sensitive flesh and she soon realizes her own high. Cullen has learned her well, and he holds himself off of her torso, his arms locked, so that she can move freely and chase it. As her hips finally quell and soften their search, she opens eyes shut tight and looks up into amber ones. They watch her as if she might be the answer to a question; she is afraid to ask him for the question. Instead, she gathers him to her, pulls him down to the pool of her breasts and holds their bodies anchored there, together.

Resolve; it is what she needs now. Lying here, together, heartbeats atop one another, her resolve threatens to tip away.

This is the last night they will be out, and she will not force him into an admission; she will not take away a specter of anything.

She will have his body or, Maker Forbid, his heart, but she will not settle merely for his firm regard.

Preparing to meet his eyes, she moves her hand to his shoulder, flays out her fingers to find purchase against the muscle of his body, and shifts him from the intimate embrace they share. She smiles up at him, catches his lips in a playful kiss she doesn’t quite feel. “That was a most agreeable way to bring our trip to an end.”

“Jonas settled everything you asked for?”

“Yes. Thank you for sending Palfrey with me; I trust him, it will be good to have him along.”

He lays on his side, his head propped up on his hand so he can look at her as she lies on her back. His hand grazes her belly, tracing idle fingertips around the soft flesh. He glances away, hesitates a moment, and then: “I would like to talk about Skyhold.”

She smiles, seeking to deflect, “I am sure it still stands, Commander; I should think our absence is barely cause for remark.”

“Perhaps, although I do not imagine that Cassandra’s presence has been so _unremarkable_ ,” and he smiles, laying a joke that he knows she will like: “More than likely Josephine and Leliana have had to enter into three different negotiations to keep her from running anyone through.”

Dorothea giggles at the caricature of the three women they left in charge of the Inquisition’s concerns, meeting trouble around the war table without Dorothea there to mediate differences. “I regret that Thedas needs us to save them by heading back. It would be amusing to see what they might do.”

He looks at her wistfully, “I had hoped we would be out here longer.”

Mentally she goes on guard; verbally she is casual: “Oh?”

“I regret that we do not have more time to figure this out.” He shifts onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, “To know what we think of this before we have to answer to Cass and to Leliana.”

“Does it matter?” Dorothea asks, her curiosity getting to the better of her.

“No. Yes . . . yes. They have been my friends; Cassandra has stood by me these last two years. She brought me in, at Justinia’s request, but she stood by me, helped me to the leave the Lyrium, she watched over me.” He trails off, lost to his thoughts.

“She is very loyal to you; I do not think you should worry that you would lose that. Besides,” Dorothea rises to find her robe, to cover her nakedness and finish distancing herself from the intimacies of before, “we don’t have to figure this out. We can simply continue on as we were before; nothing has to change, nothing has to get hard.”

 “We could, though.” His voice is carefully neutral, and Dorothea knows the words speak to some sort of longing that he has hovered near every night for the past week. “Dorothea, I – “

“Stop.”  Her back is to him as she slips the robe and cinches its tie. She closes her eyes, breathes carefully. She knows what he wants—what he thinks he wants—for this to be beyond a moment, for meaning. “Cullen, I care for you, I have always meant that. I care for all of you—if it comes to that—you are each my family.” She turns and looks at him squarely, “But for you to speak of anything beyond the Inquisition’s survival, you shouldn’t.”

“Dorothea…” he sits, starts to move to her, but she forestalls him with a hand.

“At least, not yet; not here. I will not lie and say that the idea of leaving this _moment_ behind has not begun to pain me. When this first began, back in Haven, when I first met all of you . .. You were my worst nightmare: my own personal Templar and the Seeker that watches him. I didn’t trust any of you, I didn’t trust you, if it comes to that.”

He swallows, steadies his voice, “What changed?”

She looks at him puzzled. “Maker, what hasn’t changed?” She moves to sit on the bed, more than an arm’s length from him. He senses her willingness to talk and leaves her there, propping his arms behind him, the expanse of his chest bared, the sheets grazing his groin. She sighs in frustration, says lowly, “This is not how I wanted to talk about this, you heading home, me out on another mission, but,” she looks at him, “perhaps it is better this way. I think we both need some time. No—” she looks down to her lap, sees the Anchor in her hand, a reminder of her duty and obligations, “that’s not quite right.” She puffs out her breath and returns her gaze to his, “I need you to take some time. It is not enough to simply want me to come back from one more mission.” She sucks in a breath, “After Blackwall, I would be sure of what you intend. You should be sure of what you want and if you can still do what is your duty.”

She sees it in his face, then, that he finally understands her, but he asks the question, nonetheless.

“My duty?”

“Yes, Commander, your duty to defend Thedas and send me to my death; as you reminded me not too long ago, none of us can afford to falter now.”

He looks down and away from her, then. He shifts out of the bed without a word, finds his clothes, redresses in the waning firelight. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped: “I will think on all you have said, Dorothea. I will see you at Skyhold in one month’s time.” He walks to the door, opens the latch, and says, “Good hunting, Inquisitor,” and then he is gone into the hush of the night.


	17. Chapter 17

Cullen cannot remember the last time he felt this angry without Lyrium in his blood.

When he leaves Dorothea’s room that last night, he convinces himself that her hesitation—her inability to simply discuss what they are doing, what they mean to each other—he convinces himself it is sensible. After all, they are responsible for keeping the end of the world from happening; her caution is tactical and worthy of admiration.

But fuck all if he wants to be tactical.

He manages to take his leave the next morning, professional and respectful. The company succeeds in making good time, and the village and barn where they spent the night greets them before he realizes that she will be well on her way to Lake Calenhad. His mind cannot help but conjure up images of her sitting around a campfire with her companions, laughing, teasing. He imagines Bull making a ribald joke and Dorothea rejoining with her own conquests.

His irritation flares when he thinks of just being a quick story told around a campfire after a long day.

The road that passes into Honnleath comes and goes and he seeks to clear his mind, fingers looking to an empty pocket that has held Branson’s coin. He feels a fleeting swell of panic when he first detects its absence. He had hoped that giving over a token of himself, of his faith, would connect him to Dorothea and bring him a sense of contentment in her absence.

He feels the burn of frustration that both of them have left him.

As they climb into the mountains, he begins to feel steadier. The crisp air clears his head and he takes to sparring with various soldiers, using the time to teach as they travel. Since they moved to Skyhold he has rarely been to the training grounds except to watch the regimen and meet with a captain. It feels good to move, to remember through sword and shield who he has been for much of his life.

He shuts down thoughts of how that man would have punished Dorothea for existing.

They are a day out from Skyhold, though, when the Maker tests every ounce of composure Cullen has ever been given. Jonas comes to him in the quiet of the first watch and weaves a tale of manipulation and secrecy from the Spymistress. His vision tunnels and when Jonas finishes, slotting in the last pieces of Leliana’s influence, Sylva’s presence glares at him out from the dark in the Inquisitor’s room, blades flashing. He dismisses Jonas away, rises from his own campfire, and walks out into the night. He finds a space away from the perimeter, quiet and sheltered from the wind, lonely in the moonlight, and he thrusts his sword into the ground, kneels before it, and begs for guidance from the Bride.

Eventually he finds his bedroll. He wakes the next morning only after Jonas rouses him and he moves as if drugged. He drinks coffee, breaks his fast, claims his armor, sits Gelgenig, and follows the company through the pass. He moves as if he is a man in a trance that struggles to rouse.

Until they ride into the valley below Skyhold.

The fortress looms in the distance and he breathes in a deep breath as if waking from a dream. He is grateful to be back in his own domain, back on firmer ground. He has been moping around the last several months like a heart-sick puppy.

If the Spymistress wants to question him, he would get it over with. It is time to get back to work.

The Commander of the Inquisition kicks his charger into action, assuming the lead, pulling a forward party of his officers into the lower camp and up the path to the bridge. He will be in front of Leliana by dusk fall, and he can put an end to this madness.


	18. Chapter 18

Josephine sighs with exhaustion. It is already past seven bells and she wants nothing more than a quiet walk followed by a warm fire and a goblet of spiced wine. The Nevarran ambassador had sent a case of a particularly fine specimen to Josie as a thank you for the time with the Inquisitor and _Princess_ Pentaghast.

Josie still smiles to think of Cassandra’s scowl when Josephine presented the letter acknowledging the Lady Seeker’s lineage. Cassandra had growled in irritation, much to the giggly delight of Leliana, which only prodded the Seeker to growl louder. Of course, the annoyance Cassandra obviously felt did not keep her from accepting the two bottles Josie offered her out of the case. Josie suspects it is a homeland favorite from the appreciative glance the Seeker gave the label and the studious way she had ensured not to walk back to her room with it out in the open, hiding it from Master Tethras as she left through the Great Hall.

They are all tense. It is always the same when Dorothea is away. Cassandra and Leliana, in particular, cross and jibe at one another. It bemuses Josephine how the two fret over the Inquisitor especially when they are not there to protect her, and Josie wonders how the two women survived serving the Divine. In the brief time Josie had known her, Divine Justinia had never struck Josephine as one inclined to accept others fussing over her.

The Commander would be back tomorrow and some order would be restored; tonight, really, but she doubted she would see the man until the morning. Silently she is thankful that when she does see him he will have taken the time and care to be presentable. So many military men lost their attention for grooming appropriately when on campaign. But Cullen is meticulous, and it only makes him easier to look at, even if his impatience with nobles around the hold leads to incidents of ruffled feathers that Josie has to smooth over. Despite that penchant for irritation, his calming influence on Leliana and Cassandra is undeniable. Josephine wonders if he can see how both women fold him into their presence, the three of them establishing equilibrium in all they do and discuss. After the escape from Haven, even as everything threatened to fly apart, somehow the three of them seemed to find their center. Josie wonders if that center really had been Justinia—as she knows Leliana believes it was—and is not simply Dorothea. Perhaps the explanation is as simple as that the three of them just need someone in whom to believe.

Josephine’s clock sounds eight bells and she decides to call her day to a close. She takes the papers on which she has been working and secures them in her drawer, locking it with the ring of keys tucked behind her waist sash. She extinguishes all the candles, but leaves the lamp lit on her desk. It is an extravagance she insisted on in Haven and here: the clear, white light makes it easier to work into the night.

It is while she is cleaning her quill nibs by the lamp light that the outer door slams open. Josephine’s head jerks up, her body on alert. Her door opens and brings in the sight of the Commander and the Seeker.

She rises, starts to cross to greet the Commander, but stops at the edge of her desk. His color is high, as if he suffers a fever despite the chill of the air. “Commander?” she says into the gloom. The shadows from the lone lamp on her desk cast harsh, lurid darkness onto his face and Josephine startles to realize he is glaring with a vivid look of disgust. He focuses on her, though, and the disgust momentarily ebbs so that he merely looks angry and something else, something she hasn’t see in him since the final hours at Haven: rage and despair.

“Lady Ambassador,” he addresses her curtly and formally, “I have called the Council. If you will,” and he gestures to the War Room.

“But you are just back—” Josephine begins and her words tumble over the Seeker’s.

“Cullen, there is no need to drag Josephine into this madness.”

The Commander turns on the Seeker and for a hair of a moment no one in the room is sure if he will pull his sword.

“You speak to me of need?” he says quietly into the night. “Well, that is familiar.”

The Seeker’s lips thin, but Josephine can see her face pale as the other woman firms her glare.

“I think,” Cassandra says, slow and deliberate, “we should discuss this in here, not the war room.” The Seeker softens slightly, “We are allies, Cullen, not adversaries.”

Before the Commander can answer her Leliana melts forth from the shadows. The Commander notices her mere seconds after Josephine does. With barely a warning, the Commander moves to draw, shifts into a battle stance and Josie can see Leliana move her hands to her back beneath her tabard. Josephine knows what is there.

“Enough!” Josephine shouts out. The trio stills at her voice; she wonders if they remembered she is still in the room, that this is her office. “Cassandra: bar the door. Leliana: to the War Room,” she hands her friend a candle she lights from her lamp, “and light the room.”

Josie picks up her lamp as Cassandra and Leliana warily do what she has bid them do and she crosses to the Commander. “Cullen? Will you wait until morning?” She places her hand on his arm and he focuses down onto her face. His features are still harsh, but his eyes flicker to hers and for a brief second Josephine wonders what could place such dread there. Then it is gone.

“No, Lady Ambassador, I would know to what I have come home.”

Josephine nods and gestures for him to follow her, “Then we should begin, Commander.” As Josephine gains the hallway to the council room—the movement of her lamp causing the shadows on the edge of the light to bob—her mind races. She may appear unperturbed by the display in her office, but she is far from calm. Weeks ago—even before the Inquisitor was last at Skyhold—Leliana had hinted that the Commander’s infatuation worried her. As the weeks passed, Josie assumed Leliana had dismissed her concerns.

But now . . . Josephine dreads the lengths to which her friend may go to control the situation.

As she opens the council room door, Leliana finishes lighting the candelabras in the far corner of the room. As Cassandra gains the room and claims the Inquisitor’s normal place, Leliana settles herself at the table, hands clasped behind her back. Her hands rest, Josie is all too aware, where her blades are within easy reach.  Josie starts to scowl, but her eyes shift instead to the Commander who watches Leliana as if she is a demon conjured from the Fade.

Josephine wants an end to this play, so she rushes into the silence: “Why have you gathered us, Commander? Is there news from Ferelden?” she submits, willing this to simply be a conversation of tactics and resources.

The Commander draws a quick breath and then breaks the silence: “I believe it is Leliana who has things to say, Josephine. I simply want to get it over with.”

“I would have preferred,” Leliana hums into the quiet, “to have spoken with you on your own, Commander.”

“Enough, Leliana.” It is Cassandra. Josephine flinches at the snarl on the Lady Seeker’s face; disapproval oozes from her. “Justinia is not here to tug at the strings. This is you. Speak plainly: he deserves that.”

Josephine sees the Commander tense at the mention of the Divine and, at the Seeker’s last statement, his eyes shift to her slightly. He looks as if he is on the verge of interrupting, but just manages to hold his silence.

Leliana stares coolly at Cassandra, then glances quickly at Josephine, and sighs deeply, “Very well.” She turns to look the Commander fully in the face and says: “What are your intentions with the Inquisitor?”

The Commander scoffs, looks incredulously toward Cassandra, and says, “I don’t see how it is any damn concern of yours.” He is loud and angry, his hands balled into fists, his arms crossed.

“Cullen,” it is the Seeker; her voice is quiet and gentle, “answer the question.”

“Cassandra?” For the first time, Josephine sees doubt in the Commander’s face. “Why do you support this? This is none of her damn business.”

“On the contrary, Commander,” Josephine finds herself saying, “it is rather; it is all of ours.”

The Commander turns to Josephine, bewildered and caught unawares. Josephine flicks a glance to Leliana who stands unreadable. “I do not know why we gathered here,” she continues measuredly, “but everything that affects Dorothea affects us, our survival and the survival of Thedas. Blackwall—”  Josephine trails off, unsure how to complete the statement.

She is saved by the Seeker: “Rainier sucked her under, Cullen, you saw that as well as anyone.” The Commander looks to the table, head bent slightly as he listens, “We cannot afford for her to collapse.”

The Commander is still, but his voice grates out deep and harsh: “Do you think I will abandon the oaths I have given? That I am no better than that traitor?” He spits the last word, and Josie flinches at his anger.

“If,” finally Leliana speaks, “I had more carefully considered Rainier, I could have better protected us all. I could have better protected her. For his part, I think Rainier never intended to use her, never set out to harm her, but he was a man with a dangerous past and he left a wake that we—”  she gestures to Josephine and herself, “—had to fix; the treaties, Halamshiral: he nearly plunged us over the precipice.”

He jerks his head up. “So, my dangerous past?” he inflects each word, disbelief radiating in the words and the jut of his shoulders, “Kirkwall? This is about fucking Kirkwall?” he is shouting, and Josephine is grateful they are tucked back here where the whole keep cannot hear them, “She knows about Kirkwall, about all of it. What I haven’t told her she’s read in Varric’s damn book, so what possible—”

“No, not Kirkwall, Commander; Kirkwall is why you are here—the Red Lyrium, the Mage Templar war—it is why you would stay. No, it is not Kirkwall that could hurt her.”

“Leliana,” the Seeker’s voice cuts into the air which has gone thick, “this is…”

“No, Cassandra,” Leliana turns to the Seeker, her eyes flashing through narrowed slits, her Orlesian accent thickening, “he has demanded it this way. We will speak of the Rite of Annulment.”

Josephine gasps, looks to the Commander to see him blanch, his head shaking in negation, but Leliana is relentless in her fury and she turns on him.

“Dorothea cannot know the extent of Kinloch, could never know it; I expunged it from your record myself. But you could unmake her with it: you called for the Rite. Defended its use still when you spoke of it almost eleven years later with Justinia,” Cullen sucks in a quick, sharp breath, the sound of an animal wounded. “Only seven people in the world knew that until you decided to traipse across Ferelden. Did you insist on telling her, in that rather stupidly honest way you have? Does she know already the man you were? Do you even know yet if you aren’t still that man?”

“Seven?” Josephine asks, trying to understand the situation, trying to grasp at the meaning of Leliana’s spiel, and trying to determine what it is she needs to control. She is near hysterics when she demands, “Leliana! What have you not said?”

As if only noticing her again, Leliana untenses slightly. “Because only seven people knew, and five of them are dead: Neriana, Wynne, Irving, Greagoir, and Justinia; only Alistair and myself live to tell it. Justinia demanded it remain a secret and I purged it from the Commander’s record myself.”

“Then why now, Leliana?” the Commander’s voice is raw and aching with emotion.

“Because now, I think, you want to atone for more than Kirkwall, and I think in your misguided sense of honesty you will try to seek absolution from Dorothea,” she says wearily. “Even if she could give it, she sits on a razor’s edge.”

Cassandra speaks softly, “Leliana told me two weeks ago,” watching Cullen intently. “I agreed with her that in the fragile state of Dorothea’s mind we cannot afford for her to plunge in and be swallowed by another tide.”

“Cassandra,” Cullen protests, “you asked me when we made her Inquisitor, ‘could I follow her’; I could, I do. She is a compassionate leader who would trade her life for our cause; I would never burden her or the Inquisition with my weakness.”

“It is not just that,” Leliana speaks, “I would be certain she is not simply another Amell. I will understand you.”

Josephine does not catch Leliana’s reference, cannot follow the thread, but before she can ask Josephine is overruled by the Seeker, “Leliana! You dare too much. There was no basis for recrimination, the Seeker Archives showed it to be—”

“But I have other knowledge, Cassandra.” Josephine watches the Commander as Leliana shares this. His face is suddenly flushed with anger and taut with contempt. He crosses his arms, rears his head back, his eyes narrowing.

“Neriana.” It is a whisper spoken from the Commander, the quiet of his voice slaps into the room as surely as if he shouted it. “And what precisely do you hope to understand, Leliana?” he spits at her.

“Which Amell?” Josephine cuts in. She knew the rumors about the Commander and Hawke and, while she didn’t believe them to be true, she had not discouraged them at the Palace; some will always be titillated by the idea of power dallying with power.

Cassandra and Leliana turn and stare at Josephine, neither of them rushing to answer, so it is Cullen’s voice that eventually supplies: “Solona Amell; she was in the Circle in Ferelden. She was Hawke’s cousin and my friend, yes, damnit,” he raises his voice, punches the table with his fist at Leliana’s motion to protest, arrests it, “you cannot unmake that with your words and your webs, Leliana; whatever else, she was.”

The silence is thick, and Josephine asks, “Was?”

It is Cassandra who answers, watching the Commander, “She is dead. Few mages survived when the Circle fell. The First Enchanter, a handful of the Enchanters who were responsible for the younger children and the second form class. All others perished.”

“Wynne,” Cullen says, his voice raw, “Wynne survived.”

“Yes,” Leliana whispers, lost slightly to memory, “The Maker had not yet finished with her.” She rallies: “But she would have been finished if you had convinced Neriana, playing on her Circle-taught fears, that a purge was the only way. It was not; what I saw Neriana and Wynne do that day . . .” Leliana trails off, unfocused in her memory.

The Commander seems to sense her distraction and lances in, “None of which concerns Dorothea: not Kinloch, not Solona, so what does it matter, Leliana? You have had all of this time, working side by side with me, to explore this wound. Why do you choose now?”

“Why do you think?” she throws at him heatedly.

“Because Justinia’s death left you clutching for purpose. We each lived through a Blight, through our worst nightmares; we have both done things we would walk away from, if we could. So we walked toward Justinia.

“But her death left you grasping for something to make sense of her sacrifice. If you could only ensure we will all remain true and worthy of Justinia’s directive, then and perhaps only then will you know the Grace of the Maker again.” Josephine sees the Seeker’s face darken and a growl comes from her throat as Cullen finishes.

“Of course I will protect the Inquisition Most Holy gave us,” Leliana cries out.

“Leliana, enough!” Cullen roars, “It was the worst kept secret what Justinia was doing to reform the Circles and only you could have been her agent in this. You still seek to do the work she laid out for you. Even if Dorothea succeeds against Corypheus but she falls, the world will descend into madness. She must come back to stave off the chaos because only then can you carry on the Inquisition. If she dies you will never finish Justinia’s directives, and you will take any measures you deem necessary to fulfill the will of the Divine.”

“None of which can happen if Dorothea is caught up in some sort of misguided, romantic infatuation from you.”

Cullen’s face darkens. “So what are you suggesting?”

“That you run this out of your system,” she snaps.

“Leliana,” Cassandra gasps and Josephine, too, is taken aback at her friend’s venom.

“You are suggesting I bed her and move on, get the hell out of the way?”

“It should be easy enough since you just took a holiday in the middle of a war to fuck her.”

Josie hears the collective suck of breath as the Commander says, low and dangerous, “You overstep, Spymistress; neither Dorothea nor I are pawns on your chessboard.”

The other woman meets the Commander’s stare, his spine rod straight and unwavering, and then Leliana just relaxes, her shoulders untightening. In a way that Josephine cannot fathom, the reference deflates the other woman. Leliana bows her head slightly: “Yes,” she breathes into the tension.

Leliana lifts her face and looks at him beseechingly. “But it does not change the fact that we are all still vulnerable here, Cullen.”

“How?” he asks.

Leliana gives a rueful chuckle: “Will you send her to sacrifice everything, including everything you might hope for yourself? Will you send her to die?”

The words infiltrate the mind. The Commander takes a slight half-step back as if he wards off an attacker. Josie realizes she holds her breath. She feels her own uncertainty rise as she watches Cullen’s shoulders firm and a feeling of nausea creeps into her stomach when he answers finally, tonelessly:

“Yes, on my honor, I will.”

Leliana sways slightly, leans over the table: “I don’t know if I find that answer to be appeasing or more disturbing.”

The Seeker absently shifts the gloves on her hands, dully staring at the markers at Daerwin’s Mouth, at the one that represents the Inquisitor and her party. Josephine assumes that this terrible audience is finally at an end, and she rallies herself to dismiss the meeting, until—

“I was not finished.” Cullen halts Josephine with a raised hand. He stands back on his heels, his hands draped over the pommel of his sword in a familiar, casual gesture. “We cannot know what she will face before the end. I would not desert her now, nor would I deter her. Whatever else the Breach has brought, she was sent by Andraste; I care not if it was Justinia or a demon that pushed her out of the Fade at Haven, only Andraste could have walked with her through those mountains. She has made decision after decision, none of them easy, and she has saved us, focused us, and made us a family each time. I would not take that purpose away from her, and I would not ask her to carry the burden of my sins or my despair;” he looks around, “none of us should.”

Josephine clears her throat and asks: “And if there is an after?” She registers the surprise on all three of their faces, is tempted by the creeping look of relief on Cullen’s face not to press her point, but she cannot give him that refuge. “She will be Lady Trevelyan once Corypheus is dead—the Herald of Andraste, to be sure—but she will have every right to lead the title of her house and it will be easier for the Inquisition if she does so. She will not be able to be our martial leader anymore, she will need to be a political force and it will be my and Leliana’s world. It will be imperative we stand by Gaspard and continue to lend him validity and stability if we have any hope of rebuilding his alliances with Nevarra and Ferelden. She will not be able to go to a quiet retirement, Commander: her duty will not be done. Will you be the consort of the Lady Trevelyan as freely as you have been the Commander to the Inquisitor?”

Cullen eyes her, his gaze harsh and unrelenting. The lines around his eyes are mirrored in the set of his mouth. He breathes deeply for several moments and Josephine knows he remembers Halamshiral and the waking nightmare of it all. Then he relaxes, speaks:

“The battlefield may look different, but she will have every need of a strong second. If she will have me, I will be that man. I did not desert her at court before,” Josie knows he thinks of Blackwall’s last minute request not to attend the Winter Palace, “and I would not do so now.”

Josie nods her acceptance, moves to gather herself, but he speaks again, a warning tone in his voice: “But I concede to all you say on one condition: I will give over my life—be her shield and supplement her strength—but I will never be her keeper. I would have each of you swear to the same and,” he looks to the Seeker, “swear never to see her in a Circle again.”

“I so swear, Commander,” it is Leliana’s voice that rings out and Josephine echoes her own agreement more quietly. But Cullen continues to hold the gaze of the Seeker, barely acknowledging that anyone has spoken.

Cassandra breathes in deeply, a breath that Josephine hadn’t realized she held. “So much will need to be reformed, remade; I cannot swear that the Circles should not be one of them. But she has proven her strength and worth time and time again. She will be a better ally free from the constraints of a Circle and, much like the Grey Wardens, there is precedence for mages to serve outside of a Circle. So long as she serves the Inquisition and promotes the peace of the Chantry, then I can have no objection.”

Cullen nods once his acceptance of her answer. “Josephine, will you draft an informal proclamation of intent that states our declaration to see her as our ally and our autonomous leader for as long as she and the Maker see fit to have it be so?”

“Of course, Commander; an excellent idea. May I suggest we gather in the morning in my office to sign it? I will arrange for a light breakfast for us and we can discuss your visits to Redcliffe and South Reach, together.”

“I will be at the disposal of you all; no secrets.” He turns to go, the gathering at an end. He passes by Leliana, half turns to ask, “I will have a letter to send with it, but I should like it and this document dispatched to the field to the Inquisitor immediately. Leliana, could you spare a pair of scouts to serve as courier—”

“I will carry it, Commander, now that you are returned.” The Seeker’s chin juts out firmly. “It is important,” she turns her head to meet his gaze, “and I will see it done.”

He reaches out a hand and clasps her arm at the elbow; she returns the gesture and they shake. He states with the formality of intoning a benediction: “We are all the family each other has.”

“May the Maker _make_ us whole,” she returns.


	19. Chapter 19

_Dorothea,_

_When you return to Skyhold, I am ready to speak._

 

_You have placed in front of me your nature, your connection to the Fade, as reason I should pause._

_I tell you again, as I did those many months ago on the battlements, I can care for a mage because I care for you and you are a mage. Dorothea, it is as simple as that. Please do not decide for me that it is more complicated._

_I know that the man was a betrayal. He was a traitor that sought to be a better man by laying aside who he had been and assuming the mantle of another. That is not me._

_I betrayed those in my trust because the institution I believed in failed and because I failed. I know this and I own that. I seek to be a better man by claiming it so that I may be more worthy of the duty that the Maker has given me._

 

_Dorothea, I do not fear your magic, as I believe you think I do. It is the opposite. Your service, your honor, is what I have wanted my entire life to spend protecting and serving. I became a part of the Order not out of some misguided desire to control and squash, but out of a desire to help and strengthen. You and your talents are a gift of the Maker. You remind me of what we are capable._

_I cannot say what will come after. You seem certain that you journey to your death. I have more faith in you than that, and in our team, in our cause. I believe you journey to victory because I can believe nothing else and victory can only be called that when you are at the helm of the Inquisition._

_But I will give you this: I am offering you this moment, with me, and not alone. I am offering you my shield and strength. I offer this today and every day until you ride to meet Corypheus in the field._

_You have given me much to think on, and we should talk of the future; and we should do that in person, not in a letter that Leliana has undoubtedly parsed for meaning. This war won’t last forever. We should speak on what you want._

  


_The Seeker bares with her a token of our trust and our assurance that you will not be cast aside. I hope when you return you will come to find me._

_Maker watch over you,_

_C._

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order #14 & 17


End file.
